The Second Act
by ebi pers
Summary: "If there's one thing I've learned in life, it's that you have to let go." What happens to an optimist when the world doesn't deliver on all its promises? Ten years have passed and Riley Matthews has watched her friends become happy and successful. It's hard not to feel left behind. But a series of events leads her on a journey into the second act of her life.
1. How It Begins

**A/N: I'm trying something here! Hello everybody! I've been lurking in the GMW fandom for a while and I am excited to finally share my take on these characters with you. This story will be presented as a largely stream-of-consciousness narrative from Riley's point of view, set in the future when all of our favorite characters have grown up. The premise is simple: what happens to an optimist when the world doesn't deliver on everything it promised it would? Riley's an optimist and the world has been unkind. There are plenty of appearances by the rest of the gang, too. I hope you'll enjoy where I go with this, because it's been a passion project of mine for the past few months. Please let me know what you think of this first chapter. Consider it a pilot chapter/episode and I'd love your feedback! I'm super excited to embark on this journey and take you along with me!**

* * *

If there's one thing I've learned in life, it's that you have to let go. In fact, letting go is probably the most important thing. You learn something in letting go—how much you care about someone, how much you can't live without them. Or maybe that you never needed them in the first place. My dad once taught me that if you love something, set it free. If it doesn't come back, it was never yours to begin with.

That's why I was happy for Farkle when he was accepted at Harvard, even though I knew he'd probably get along better with the people there—the people of his intellect. That we probably wouldn't talk as much once he went to Cambridge. I was right.

It's why I let Lucas go. I loved him and he loved me. We just didn't know how. So I let him go to Maya, because they deserved to be happy and we were all confused. Maya and I shared everything growing up. In a way, it was natural that we would share Lucas, too. And Lucas Friar, most likely to be okay with anything that happens, went with it. Maybe because he thought it would make us happy. He found his match in my best friend—my sister. He was good for her, and she for him. Both of them have always been more than just friends to me. And in the end, Lucas came back to me as a brother. He's still my brother, now.

It's why I forced Maya to go to the Savannah College of Art and Design when she was offered a full scholarship, even though she swore she'd be happier in some hole in Brooklyn, making street art and tagging the walls of dilapidated factory lofts.

Always a plane ride away. That's what we'd said when I left her at LaGuardia Airport with her luggage and her portfolio and the guitar that once belonged to my great-grandmother. But we both knew that a plane ride away may as well have been a world away. Just because SCAD was offering her a full ride, didn't mean they were going to pay for her plane tickets back and forth. Savannah was where she was going to school and Savannah was where she would stay. Even in the summer. We were long-distance best friends for four years until she returned.

But I was selfish with Charlie. I didn't want to let him go. So I told him to follow his dreams at UCLA, to work hard and become the best architect the world had ever seen. Because he was always good at building things up when they'd been knocked down. When he got on that plane, I had a sinking feeling that he wouldn't be coming back to the East Coast. But I convinced myself that a long-distance relationship would work. That I could be in New York and he could be in Los Angeles and even though he was three hours behind me, we would be alright. We were alright until Christmas. I haven't seen Charlie Gardner since. It's been five years.

Chelsea died today. She was the first living thing I saw every morning and today, she was gone. I wasn't surprised. Fish Store Phil told us that goldfish, when taken care of, can live between ten and fifteen years. Chelsea turned ten last spring and now she's gone. So I had to set her free, too. I watched her orange body—shimmering and lifeless—as it spiraled down the drain. I knew she wasn't coming back. Goldfish are like people—even the ones closest to you are never totally yours. And even with the best of intent, once they're gone they very rarely come back. Sometimes never.

When Maya came back, she was different. She changed in college. In her letters, she described it as "connecting with her art." I wish I knew what that felt like. I wish I knew how to connect. I had a creative writing professor at Oswego who ripped apart a short story I handed in once. It almost made me change my major. I'm paralyzed when I sit in front of my computer, even if I'm only writing a two-hundred and fifty word blurb that no one will read, that'll inevitably be buried under a mountain of more important news.

Maya lives in Bushwick now. In a two-bedroom brownstone near Irving Square Park. She wears so many hats—teacher, artist, best friend, _wife_. Lucas works as a vet tech. He's finishing up his veterinary degree through Cornell's Manhattan campus. My sister and my brother, sharing one house and one last name and neither of them are mine. I live near Battery Park in a one-bedroom apartment on the nineteenth floor that costs entirely too much in rent. I don't care. I like the view. There's no bay window, but I can see New York Harbor from my bedroom. It's good for my writing.

Farkle's living somewhere in the Upper West Side, in a penthouse overlooking Central Park. I don't see him much, but I hear about him often. He's a dictator and a tyrant, but in the best way possible. And as the youngest-ever Chairman of the Board at Minkus International, he's a pretty big deal. He made Time Magazine's 100 Most Influential last year. I went to a keynote he gave at Columbia a few months ago. He invited me to get a drink afterwards. I haven't seen him in person since then.

The thing they never tell you about growing up is that it's lonely. It's lonely when all your friends have moved on with their lives, accomplished what they wanted to accomplish and you're left trying to keep up, trying to contribute something to the conversation. But not even the most intense cheerfulness and optimism can compare to a well-loved art teacher, a board member of a Fortune 500 company, and a soon-to-be-veterinarian. Heck, my brother's sixteen and he's already talking to colleges thanks to a presentation he gave at a science symposium. I'm twenty-four and stuck in Riley-town. My dad used to tell me never to grow up. I don't think he knew what he was wishing for.

* * *

I shut my laptop with a definitive thud, louder and more forceful than I intended. I couldn't stare at the harsh glare of empty Word documents any longer. My eyes drifted towards Chelsea's bowl, vacated upon her passing. No heir to inherit the family estate. The bowl was still full of water. A few uneaten flakes of fish food had nestled themselves between the gaps in the ramparts of the plastic castle. Someone once told me that goldfish have a three-second memory span. I don't know if that's true or not, but if it is, it means that every time Chelsea swam through the archway of that plastic castle, she was exploring a whole new world. I wish I was a goldfish.

I left my apartment just as the lunch rush started. I needed to go for a walk. I needed to get out of there, away from the oppressive silence and the empty fishbowl. I started down South End Avenue and took a right onto Rector Place, parallel to the park. A few joggers were out, running past the semi-circular row of benches and along the iron fence, headed in the opposite direction of me, dodging suited office workers. The sky was overcast but not entirely dark—typical of an autumn day in the City. The temperature hovered around forty-five degrees. I stopped to buy a coffee from a vendor's cart, warming my hands on the sides of the Styrofoam cup.

I crossed over to the Esplanade and made my way along the walking path. New York Harbor was murky and gray, its currents lapping at the sheer wall of the walkway. The water was choppy. I imagined Chelsea sinking to the bottom of the Harbor, her glittery scales glinting as they caught bits of light on the way down.

I used to love the Esplanade, before I lived right next to it. In high school it was mine and Charlie's thing to take the subway down to Bowling Green Station and walk through Battery Park. I thought I would love being so close but the place has lost its magic. I hardly go there now. My coffee ran out by South Cove Park and I chucked the cup into a garbage can. I decided I should head back to my apartment. My editor was expecting five hundred words by Friday and I had yet to produce a single sentence.

It was dark when I got back. I had forgotten to open the blinds. I sat at my desk, took a deep breath, and opened my laptop to try again. But I didn't have anything to say and I found myself staring into Chelsea's empty bowl until I lost my train of thought.

My phone rang—a welcome distraction. I swept up the device eagerly. A photo of me and Maya stared back at me, her name emblazoned across the top of the screen. I tapped the green button and put the phone to my face. "Hello?"

"Hey, you free to talk?" Maya sounded tense. I furrowed my brow. It was three o'clock. School was out but Maya never left the building before five, even though I begged her not to be in that part of the Bronx after dark.

"For you? Always," I answered automatically. For anyone. Always. It's not like I had anything better to do. "What's up?"

She sighed a tired sigh. I could picture her face, scrunched up and exhausted. Where was she right now? "Not on the phone," she finally said. "Bay window."

"Maya, I don't have a bay window."

"You have a window that looks out on the Bay," she pointed out. "Close enough. I'll be there in an hour."

I didn't even ask who was there when the buzzer rang in my living room. I just pushed the button and unlocked the door. Maya burst into my apartment three minutes later, a tote dangling from her right hand. Her blonde curls were a mess. "Bay window. Bay window right now," she didn't greet me, just dropped the bag, sending grade books and student portfolios scattering across my living room floor. She seized my wrist with one hand and pulled me toward the bedroom.

Maya sank into my office chair, swinging it from side-to-side, deep in thought. I perched on one corner of my bed and felt the mattress dip beneath me. I hadn't seen her this visibly upset in a long time. Her eyes darted around the room distractedly, settling on Chelsea's empty home.

"The fish…"

"Chelsea died today," I explained.

"Looks like we both lost a little piece of ourselves."

I furrowed my brow. "Maya, what happened?"

"I just had a meeting with my principal and a representative from the Board of Education," she said.

I held my breath. Board of Education members rarely meant anything good. My father taught me that, too. "What happened?"

"They're letting me go, Riles," she said abruptly. "I have until winter break starts."

"What? Why?" I was outraged. Indignant. Maya Hart—Maya Friar—was the best artist I knew and an amazing teacher. How could they let someone like her go?

"Budget cuts," she told me. Same old story. "They said they don't have it in the budget to keep paying someone with my qualifications so they have to let me go. They recommended I look at districts in Rockland County or Bergen County, New Jersey. Places with wealthier people and more room in their budgets to pay me."

I paused, unsure of what to say. They were right, of course. Those places did have more room in their budgets. "Do you want to go to a wealthier district?"

"No! No, I don't, Riley. They don't need someone like me. Those schools have tons of resources. Those kids are going to be fine. My kids _need_ me."

I wondered what it felt like to be needed.

Maya dropped her face into her hands. "You're so good at fixing things, Riley. Help me. Please. What do I do?"

I took a deep breath. What would my dad do? "Maya, if you really feel strongly about this, you need to go to the Board of Ed office and tell them that."

She paused, eyes searching mine. I could tell she was looking for a hole in my logic. Her expression contorted. "You really think that's all it'll take? I just waltz on down there and say 'hey, let me keep my job' and they'll say 'why sure, Maya, since you asked so nicely here ya go. In fact, we'll give ya a raise.' Is that really how you think this is gonna go?" There was bitterness in her blue eyes. I couldn't tell if there were tears welling up in them or if it was a trick of the light. My face dropped. She pinched the bridge of her nose and squeezed her eyes shut.

"I'm sorry," Maya said. "I didn't mean to be sarcastic, it's just—"

"I know," I cut her off. "It's okay. Maya, you believe in art, right?"

Her eyes popped open in surprise. "Yes," she answered slowly.

"You believe in your kids, right?"

"More than I've ever believed in anything my whole life."

I put my arms around her shoulders. "Then you'll find a way to keep your job. Believing is powerful." The corners of her mouth tweaked upwards. I realized I was a hypocrite.

* * *

"Look at this," Maya held up a pastel drawing. I took a step closer to the dining table to see it. "Tasha started working on this last week. She finished it today." The drawing was done entirely in black-and-white, depicting an old tugboat, decaying on the banks of some unknown river. "I've seen this boat. It's at a ship graveyard on Staten Island. The assignment was photorealism. How can anyone look at this and say art isn't important? How can anyone look at this and say we don't have room for it in the budget?"

I stirred spaghetti and stared into the depths of the pot. "Maya, do you remember how we saved the arts program at John Quincy Adams?"

"Of course I remember," my best friend clasped her head in her hands again, smudging streaks of pastel into her hair. She snatched up her pen and made a note in her grade book, then carefully replaced Tasha's drawing in its folder. "But times change, Riles. Turner's not the superintendent of schools anymore. There's nobody in power to protect the kids."

"There's you," I pointed out, setting the ladle aside and covering the pot. She looked at me and tried to scoff. "You can protect them. You can advocate for them."

"I'm just a teacher, and a new one at that. They'll never listen to me," Maya answered, opening the next portfolio. She frowned at it a moment and I craned my neck to see the crude, pastel impression of a purple cat.

"Whose is that?" I questioned.

"Emma's," my best friend murmured. I could tell she was conflicted, but she finally wrote something in the grade book and put Emma's purple cat on the stack with the rest of the drawings. "You know what, maybe I will go down to the Board of Ed and at least give them a piece of my mind."

"Does Lucas know?" It seemed obvious but I hadn't thought to ask the question earlier. Sometimes I forget they're living under the same roof now.

Maya shook her head. "I haven't told him yet. He was at work and now he's in class."

"Will you two be okay?"

"I hope so," she answered. "I don't know, Riles. He's still in school. He's still got loans to pay off and vet techs make next-to-nothing. I'm the main source of income right now…"

I envied Maya's life, as strange as it sounds. I had envied that she had a stable job, a stable relationship with a good man, a stable life that was already figured out. Even in that moment, as I realized how much of a struggle it really was for her and Lucas to keep the roof over their heads, how uncertain their future truly was now that her job was in jeopardy, I was still jealous of her. I lifted the lid of the pot and let the steam bombard my face until the feeling subsided.

The intercom buzzed again. I frowned. "Riley Matthews," I answered. I thought it might be the delivery guy—I must have ordered something and forgotten. What I heard instead was Lucas's familiar drawl.

"Hey, Riles. Is Maya there?"

I couldn't help but grin at her as she shook her head, shutting her grade book and slipping it back into her tote.

"She sure is. Come on up," I buzzed him in and unlocked the door again, but that didn't stop him from knocking first. "It's open," I called out, straining the spaghetti, colander balanced precariously on either side of the narrow kitchen sink. Lucas opened the door and stepped inside. He was dressed in navy blue scrubs with the name of the clinic embroidered over the left breast. His pointy boots had been replaced by sneakers. I'd never seen Lucas in his uniform before.

"How'd you know you'd find me here?" Maya questioned, rising from her seat to greet him. He folded her into his arms.

"Just a hunch," he leaned over her.

"You smell like dog," she murmured into the fabric of his scrubs.

"And you look like a work of art," he replied, teasing his hands through her pastel-streaked hair.

"Dinner's almost done," I piped up, pretending not to have witnessed their moment.

"Hi, Riley," Lucas smiled, releasing his wife from his grip. Maya made a face as she spat out bits of dog hair. Lucas chuckled. "I'd hug you but I'm covered in dog hair."

"I'm a dog person," I insisted, wrapping my arms around my brother. "What brings you to my neck of the woods?"

"I was at my night class," he answered. "Maya usually texts me when she gets home so we can figure out dinner but when she didn't, I figured she'd be here."

"Well, dinner's on me," I answered, opening a cabinet and rummaging for three plates. All mismatched. I heaped pasta onto all three and opened a can of Ragu. It wasn't fancy, but it was the best I had.

"Riley, you don't have to—" Maya began.

"No, stay!" I insisted. "Please! Look, I already made so much. I can't eat this all by myself." I don't know why I pushed so hard for the two of them to have dinner with me. It's not like we didn't see each other at all. Just not as much as we'd like.

"Riles, I'm covered in dog hair. We should really get home—"

"Lucas, sit," I pointed to the circular dining table, two chairs arranged around it.

"Okay," he threw his hands up in surrender. "Can I wash my hands first?"

I jerked my head in the direction of the bathroom and went to drag my office chair over from the bedroom. "You're gonna tell him, right?" I dropped into the chair and it rolled backwards with my momentum.

"Here?" Maya looked stricken for a moment.

"Why not? I already know. You may as well get it over with here and go home in peace."

"Riley, I don't know."

I put my hand on her shoulder. "Sweetie, do you trust me?"

"More than I trust myself sometimes," she answered. Her eyes fell to her plate and she studied a stray droplet of spaghetti sauce intently.

"Let him know now. He loves you, Maya. You'll figure it out."

"Figure what out?" Lucas pulled out his chair and tumbled into it with a slight sigh, sweeping up his fork eagerly. I scrutinized his face. The bags under his green eyes had gotten darker and more prominent. Lucas looked tired. More tired than a twenty-five year old should look.

I cleared my throat and set my fork down. "Lucas, Maya has something to tell you."

Maya's eyes shot icy blue daggers in my direction but I didn't waver.

"Maya, what is it?" Lucas set his fork down and swallowed, searching his wife's face for a hint.

Her eyes fluttered shut for a moment and she let out a measured breath through her nostrils. "The district's cutting back on funding," she began. I watched Lucas's face fall. "And they've decided that they can't afford to pay me. So I will be officially out of a job come December."

Silence. I wished I hadn't forced Maya to tell him. I wished I had just kept my mouth shut and let her formulate the right words and pick the right time when she was alone with her husband. I wished I hadn't tried to fix this because something told me I had just made it worse.

Lucas slowly reached across the table, his hand clasping Maya's. "What should we do?" he asked carefully.

I caught her sniffle. "I'm going to march down to the Board of Ed office tomorrow and I'm going to speak to whoever it takes to get the message across that I have no intention of leaving."

He traced his thumb over her knuckles. "You think it'll work?"

"It worked when we were kids," she replied. "I believe there's a chance."

"I'll go with you."

"Lucas, you don't have to—"

"Of course I have to. I'm your husband."

"You might not like how this ends!"

"How it ends doesn't matter, Maya! How it ends is you and me. Together. Getting through this no matter what decision they make."

My eyes fell to my plate and I began tracing paths through the little crevices and gaps formed by the noodles. Riley Matthews. Third-wheeling since the ninth grade. I wanted to say that I'd be there, too. That I'd support them, too. That it was Maya and Lucas…and me. But instead I kept quiet and worked my way through a spaghetti maze.

* * *

"I was saving this for a special occasion," I emerged from the kitchen clutching a bottle of Chianti and brought it over to where they were seated on the couch. "But I think now's an appropriate time."

"Good," Maya snorted. "I could use a drink."

I fetched three wine glasses from the cabinet and lined them up on the coffee table.

"None for me, please," Lucas requested. "I gotta drive us home."

"I'll have his," Maya said. I poured two glasses for her and figured she of all people was entitled to it. She raised one and handed the other to Lucas. "A toast. To an unstable future but an unstable future together."

"Hear, hear." We clinked our glasses together. Lucas took a sip and then handed the rest to his wife.

Maya downed a good quarter of the glass in one gulp. "God," she said after a minute. "I needed that."

"Might wanna take it easy there," Lucas arched a brow at her but she ignored him, taking another massive gulp.

I swirled the wine around in my glass as Maya moved on to her second. I debated whether I should try to match her or not. But hey, nobody was telling me to take it easy.

Maya finished her second glass and reached for the bottle. Her cheeks were starting to glow red. "Hope you got a second bottle," she told me, passing it back across the table by the neck.

Lucas got up and went to the sink, filling two glasses with water. He pressed one into each of our hands. "Damage control," he told us.

I smiled. "Thank you, Lucas." I was still fine. I rose to find another bottle. It was a cheap one I picked up somewhere, not nearly as nice as the Chianti but I figured we were well past the point of caring.

"It's like…it's like a bay window," Maya reached for the new bottle before I had even opened it. "Like, do you remember? We would sit and we would just, like, talk like this. Just like this."

I poured a second glass for myself and tried to make sense of what my best friend was telling me. "Except we were usually sober when we sat at the bay window."

" 'Cept in college, remember? I surprised you an' we made a bay window in your dorm an' we drank that bottle o…god, what was it?" Maya giggled. And then her face shifted, morphed into a pained expression. "I'm gonna be outta a job," she slurred. "We all knew tha' was gonna happen though, din't we, Pumpkin?" She whimpered a little.

"Oh-kay," Lucas wrestled the glass away from her, half-full. "I think you've had plenty."

The wine was starting to take effect and my head was buzzing a little, but what she said still bothered me.

"Bu' not you, Pumpkin," Maya pointed a shaky finger at me. "You still gotta job. You always gotta job. I wish I was you."

I tried to force a smile. I felt warm. Lucas shifted uncomfortably. "But you'll be alright, Peaches," I told her. "You got Lucas. You got each other." I felt Lucas's gaze on me. It cut through the glassiness of my vision. I couldn't read his expression in that moment.

"An' you got Charlie. Good ol' Charlie Gardner," Maya practically sang, leaning against her husband. "Good ol' Cheese Soufflé."

My heart stopped.

"Maya," Lucas began, eyeing me even more uncomfortably than before.

"Shhhh," she shushed him, jabbing a finger at his chest. "Be quiet, Huckleberry."

"Maya," he said a little more firmly.

"Wha'?" I saw clarity in her eyes as what she said finally dawned on her. "Oh no."

"It's fine," I said. I set my glass down and decided I was drunk.

" 'M sorry, Riles," Maya tried to lean across the coffee table. "I din't mean it."

"I think it's time we hit the road," Lucas stood up, guiding his wife to a standing position beside him. "We have work tomorrow." He turned to Maya. "And you are gonna be feeling that hangover in the morning."

"It's fine," I repeated.

"Thanks for dinner, Riley," he hugged me, maybe a little tighter than usual. I couldn't read his expression, but I fancied he felt a little guilty from the way the corners of his mouth tweaked downwards.

Maya's eyes were glassy. I didn't know if it was from the alcohol or if she was crying. "I'm sorry about—"

"Don't be sorry. I should be sorry," I said quickly, walking them to the door. I watched Lucas help his wife toward the elevators and stood there until they disappeared behind the brass-colored sliding doors. I moved to the window to see if I could spot Lucas's blue SUV, but it was dark and every car looked the same.

The bottle of wine was still open on the coffee table and there were dishes in the sink but I didn't have the energy to clean up, so I let them sit there and went to my room. My head was buzzing but I could already tell this was as drunk as I was going to get. I envied Maya's tiny frame that allowed her to get wasted off a couple glasses of wine. She probably wouldn't remember much through her hangover in the morning. I, on the other hand, would remember all of it.

Letting go is the most important thing. If you love something, set it free. If it doesn't come back, it was never yours to begin with. What hurt wasn't so much that Charlie wasn't mine to begin with, even if I thought he was. What hurt the most was the way we left things. One video chat from across the country later and I was alone. We've had no contact in five years. No Merry Christmas or Happy New Year's or birthday text messages. Only the occasional Facebook update to remind me that he once existed in my life. Growing up is lonely. When I finally tumbled onto my mattress, I didn't even have the willpower to crawl beneath the sheets. I lay on top of them until I fell asleep. In my dream, I was walking down the aisle of a church in a wedding gown. When I looked to my right, Lucas was standing beside me but there was no one at the altar.

* * *

 **A/N: Going forward, I won't be leaving author's notes in every chapter but since this is an introduction, I thought I would do so here. I hope you enjoy the direction this is headed. Please let me know what you think-what worked, what didn't, how my characterization was, etc. Any feedback will definitely be helpful. Thank you for reading and I hope to hear from you soon!**


	2. Consolation Prize

The alarm on the bedside table rang at six thirty. Lucas yawned and rolled over, startled by the presence of a second warm body in bed beside him. He opened his eyes and was greeted with a face full of Maya's blonde hair, fanned wildly around her head. Maya should have been up. She always rose before dawn to set up her easel and her paints so that she could "capture the gold" of the sunrise. He learned to sleep through it, so the alarm served the dual purpose of waking him up and reminding her she had a half hour before she had to leave the house. She was never in bed at this time. Of course, Maya wasn't usually hungover on a school day either.

Lucas smirked to himself as he encircled his wife's waist with his arms and dropped a kiss into her unruly hair. She stirred, but he knew she was already awake. "Good morning," he whispered. "No gold to capture today?"

"The gold can screw off until noon," she huffed, then laughed at her own ridiculousness. She yawned and sat up, keenly aware of the fact that she had a half hour to pull herself together. Lucas mimicked her, allowing the sheets to slide off his torso. He pivoted out of the bed and stood up as she rolled off the mattress and tugged her corner up over the pillows.

"You're gonna go in front of the school board hungover?" he questioned, brow quirked playfully as he tucked the sheets under his side of the bed.

"They can screw off, too," she retorted, squinting at the bits of sunlight filtering through the cracked blinds. She yanked her bathrobe off the closet doorknob and cinched it tightly about her as she padded toward the bathroom. The cool of the cracked ceramic tub and the lukewarm water streaming from the rust-spotted showerhead woke her up enough that by the time she emerged five minutes later, she looked decidedly not-hungover. Her head still pounded but she figured it would be a good way to channel her anger later. At the very least, it would make others think twice before trifling with her today. She left her sweatpants on the chipped, light blue tile of the bathroom floor and tugged on a burgundy sweater that she hoped made her look serious. Maybe even a little lethal.

Lucas had her coffee in a thermos when she finally came to the kitchen, tote balanced in the crook of her arm and her handbag draped over her shoulder. He kissed her on the lips.

"Go save the arts," he encouraged.

"And you go save the animals, Huckleberry," she replied.

He watched his wife as she stepped off the porch and through the wrought-iron fence. He watched as her red hatchback pulled away from the curb. Lucas Friar watched and hoped that when that car returned that evening, it would bring a triumphant Maya with it.

* * *

I missed my seven o'clock alarm, as usual. I don't know why I set an alarm that early. Some naïve hope that I'd be up early and refreshed, I suppose. The one time I actually did get up at that time, I felt great for the whole day. I accomplished a lot. I haven't accomplished anything since I committed to rising early all the time.

I looked to Chelsea's bowl automatically. I started to say "good morning" to her. Then I realized my mistake and fell back against my pillow with a huff. I didn't want to move. There was still a mess to clean up in the kitchen. I still had five-hundred words due to my editor by Friday. I wondered what Maya was up to. The school day had started already. Would she take my advice and go to the Board of Ed offices? And more importantly would it work?

I rolled out of bed with a groan. I left a Riley-shaped indentation in the mattress and the sheets were wrinkled around my outline. I passed my hand over the comforter a few times to smooth it out but the wrinkles kept coming back, so I just gave up.

The wine was still uncorked on the coffee table, three glasses arranged around it with burgundy droplets collected in the bottom. The marinara sauce had dried into tough stains on the plates in the sink and I knew I would be scratching and scrubbing for a while to get them off. I thought about going for a walk. Anywhere. Through Battery Park. Maybe to the coffee shop a few blocks up South End Avenue. I could use the excuse of buying breakfast. But I realized with another look around my apartment that I needed to clean this mess up. The longer I waited, the longer I'd be working, so I resigned myself to getting the job done.

I finished cleaning at twelve-thirty. Once I got started, I couldn't stop. If I told Maya that, she would have laughed and said that was always my problem. I got the dishes done but water splashed onto the sides of the sink, so I had to wipe that up. And then I realized that I hadn't disinfected the counters in a while. And then the bathroom started looking a little grimy so I scrubbed the shower down. And by that point, I figured I may as well vacuum and dust while I was at it. The place was spotless. I wished it had looked this nice the night before.

I took a walk down to the bakery at the corner of South End and Liberty and bought a croissant. It was a pitiful excuse for a lunch, especially since I hadn't eaten breakfast, but I didn't feel like anything else. I nibbled it on the way back to my apartment but I lost my appetite halfway and dumped it in a garbage can, my ears hot with embarrassment as I looked around to see if anyone had noticed.

It was almost one-thirty by the time I reached home. I shed my coat on the dining chair, deposited my boots by the door, and sat down at my desk to type. I was supposed to be writing about a children's outing to Battery Park that took place the past weekend. The kids were from the Madison Square Boys and Girls Club and they were visiting Castle Clinton and the Gardens of Remembrance. It was just a brief blurb meant to take up the top quarter of the community page. It was a filler, a placeholder, something that Maya would skip over to get to the comics and Lucas would skip over to get to the sports section. Maybe my mom would read it if she had a free moment. It really didn't matter. I had my notes. I had my photos. This should have been easy. The piece should have written itself. All I had to do was say what happened. But when I sat down in front of my screen, all I could manage was "The Madison Square Boys and Girls Club took an outing to Battery Park this past Sunday." That was it. That was the story. In sixteen words, I had said exactly what happened.

I looked at my notes.

"I learned all about the people who came to America and went through the castle to come here," said Devon, age nine, from Midtown.

"I liked learning about the garden and all the plants," said Shayla, age six, from East Harlem.

"Our hope was that the children would learn a little about America's immigrant roots and how immigration built the rich culture of New York City and the United States as a whole. We also wanted the children to reflect on historical events that have influenced New York, such as 9/11, which the gardens commemorate," said Christine Morrison, a volunteer with the club.

I was supposed to incorporate at least one of these quotes into the article. I had a picture of Shayla mugging for the camera, posed amid the plants wilting in the autumn chill. Her tight braids were springy and lively, populated with colorful clips and her gap-toothed smile was broad and bright. It would have made a cute companion to the sentence that I was supposed to transform into a paragraph. I highlighted the sixteen words, hit backspace, and shut my laptop in disgust.

The water in the fishbowl shook, forming perilous little currents that looked like they could capsize a miniature boat. Rough seas. I bumped the desk again. The waves intensified, rising so high they nearly spilled from the container. The water had to go. The whole fishbowl had to go. It was eating up space on top of the desk. I could store books there, I thought. Maybe a notepad or a bigger desk lamp or a little jar for my paperclips. There was no end to what I could do with all that free real estate once Chelsea's home was gone. I carried the bowl to the bathroom and turned it forty-five degrees over the toilet. The water flowed forth and chunks of teal gravel gathered by the drain. I wondered if they would cause a plumbing issue, but decided to flush anyway. The water and the gravel and the rest of the uneaten fish food followed Chelsea's path to fish heaven. I plucked the plastic castle from the dry bowl, but I didn't know what to do with it so I left it on the side of the sink and abandoned the aquarium in the shower to dry, bottom still half-full of blue-green pebbles.

My phone rang at six. I was staring at my notes, tracing the letters and lines of my pen for the umpteenth time. My laptop was shut tight. Maya's face and mine appeared on the screen. I tapped the green button.

"Hello?"

"Hey, sweetie," Maya crooned. I could hear the smile in her voice. "What'cha doin' right now?"

I stared out the window. A barge out in the harbor had turned its lights on and the red light of a helicopter blinked somewhere over New Jersey. "Nothing," I answered.

"Good," Maya replied. "Because I'm coming to pick you up."

I frowned. "When?"

"You have a half hour."

"What's the occasion?"

"You'll see," she replied enigmatically. The smile in her voice had returned, this time mischievous. "Oh and dress nice for me," she added.

She hung up before I could tell her that I was planning to turn in early, that I hadn't done laundry, that I was supposed to be writing an article, that I was _busy_ doing nothing. I dug out a white sweater from my closet and threw it over a pair of black leggings. With a scarf, it would have to be nice enough.

I was waiting at the curb when Maya's red hatchback pulled up. The headlights of passing cars glinted off the chrome Volkswagen badge on the grille. The car looked like a ladybug wandering in a chaotic maze of buses and yellow cabs. Maya double-parked my neighbor's station wagon and I opened the passenger door.

"Hey, Pumpkin," Maya greeted with a broad grin, reaching across the console and removing her tote from the passenger foot well. She tossed it into the back without looking twice and then leaned over in her seat to hug me.

"Hi," I greeted back, shutting the door and twisting around for my seatbelt. I didn't recognize the song playing on the radio. Probably some local band that Maya heard playing at a bar in SoHo or something. She swung out into traffic without checking her mirrors twice. The dream catcher dangling from the rearview mirror danced wildly.

"So," Maya cast a mischievous smirk in my direction. "Aren't you gonna ask where we're going?"

"Where are we going?" I humored her.

"Dinner. Ask me where."

"Where?"

"The Green Dragon on Canal Street. Best Moo Shu pork in the City. Now ask me why we're going there."

"Why?"

She pursed her lips into a thin line as she hung a right, then turned her attention back to me. "Guess you'll just have to wait and see." She set me up. "Lucas is meeting us there and you know I don't like to tell the same story twice."

* * *

I braced against the chill as Maya left the car keys with the valet at one of the parking lots where they stacked cars in columns four-high. Canal Street was crowded despite the temperature, the sidewalks full of people making their way toward restaurants and grocery stores. Vendors stood at tables along the sidewalk, offering wall art and knockoff handbags that Maya stopped briefly to peruse. Outside of small markets, old women sold vegetables and fruits, some of which I didn't recognize. Maya stopped abruptly outside of a small restaurant with green Chinese lettering on the sign. The only printed English in sight was the address, the blinking open sign, and the menu taped to the window. The place itself looked unassuming—narrow and lost in a sea of bright neon. Through the large, plate glass windows, I could see a surprising number of diners crowded around dimly-lit tables draped in white tablecloths. Servers dressed in all black rushed back and forth from customer to customer.

"Here we are," Maya said brightly, pulling the door open and ushering me inside. Paper lanterns hung from the ceiling, casting a soft red glow. The entrance was crowded with a large vase of bamboo and a host station with a cash register perched on its counter. A ceramic welcome cat waved at me from its place beside the register. The aromas of a hundred different types of dishes wafted through the dining room and a constant din filled the restaurant.

"Hi, how many?" a hostess began reaching for menus.

"We're actually with him," Maya gestured to Lucas, seated at a circular table in the back corner. He spotted us and beckoned us over, his arm waving like the welcome cat. I followed my best friend as we sauntered over to the table.

"Hey, Riles," he greeted, rising to fold me into a hug. No dog hair this time, just a navy sweater. I hugged him quickly, then ducked out of the way to allow him access to his wife. He enveloped her tightly and pressed a kiss to her lips. I busied myself with removing my coat and adjusting my scarf.

When we finally sat down, a waiter came by. "Hot tea?" he asked.

"Yes, three please," Maya requested.

"Oh, and can we get some wine glasses?" Lucas requested, setting a bottle of cabernet on the table. The waiter nodded and hurried off.

"You ever been here, Riley?" Lucas turned his attention to me. I shook my head.

"It's the best Chinese place in New York," Maya told me. "We found this place by accident a few months ago when we were walking through Canal Street and we keep inventing excuses to come back."

"Which means we're either celebrating or trying to cheer you up," Lucas focused his gaze on his wife. "Please tell me this bottle of wine isn't a consolation prize."

Maya smiled a close-lipped smile and we both knew the answer right away. The waiter set three cups and a teapot down and laid out the three wine glasses. He uncorked the cabernet. Maya ordered for the three of us—family style—and Lucas poured out the wine. He raised his glass.

"A toast to victory," he announced, beaming at Maya. She raised her glass, breaking out into a broad grin. I forced a smile. We clinked our glasses together.

"Make it last," Lucas admonished his wife. "I'm cutting you off after one glass tonight."

"Yeah, yeah," she scoffed.

"So…? Tell us how it went," I requested.

"Well," Maya began with flourish, a cocky grin set on her features. "I took your advice, Riles. I went to the Board of Ed and asked to speak with Human Resources. I went in and explained the situation to them and told them how much I loved my job and how much the kids and I need each other."

"And…?" Lucas asked.

"They said there was nothing they could do. Their hands were tied," Maya answered. Same old story. I furrowed my brow and opened my mouth to ask a question but she held up a hand to cut me off. "So I talked to them some more and told them I'd be willing to take a pay cut if they would let me stay on. They told me it was unorthodox and that the union probably wouldn't be a big fan of that. I said I'm unorthodox and I don't care what the union thinks because this is my job and I'll accept whatever pay I want. And they agreed to it."

"So you're taking a pay cut?" I asked.

"Yeah!" Maya beamed like it was something everyone should aspire to. She took a sip of her wine. "Isn't it great? I'm keeping my job, Riles!"

I glanced at Lucas. He didn't look fazed or surprised or upset. He looked relieved. Elated. I gave them my best smile. It _was_ great. It was great that Maya could keep the job she loved. It was great that everything worked out. Even with the pay cut, I was sure they would manage to keep the roof over their heads and that was great. I don't know why I was forcing myself to be happy for them.

"I can't wait to tell my students." Maya's cheeks were glowing red again. Maybe it was just the red of the lanterns overhead. She was only half a glass in. The waiter returned, cramming our table full of platters and bowls of rice and another pot of tea and sauces in little dishes decorated with blue flowers.

"You told your students you might be leaving?" Lucas seized a snow pea with his chopsticks and emptied it into his bowl of rice.

"I had to. Like ripping off a Band-Aid," Maya replied, mouth full. "They were really upset. They wanted to start a petition and everything. It was really sweet. Tasha came up to me after class and said 'Mrs. Friar, if you leave, I'm probably going to drop out. Your class is the only thing that makes me want to come to school.' She's who I had in mind when I was talking to the HR people. I'm just relieved I can tell them I'm here to stay."

I fumbled with a jagged piece of carrot, trying and failing to capture it between my chopsticks. Finally, I picked up my fork and stabbed the vegetable, nibbling on my prize. Maya laughed at something Lucas said. I wondered how she felt when Tasha told her that her class was the only reason she came to school. Had anyone ever told my father that? Was it an honor? Because I felt like I would be terrified if I were saddled with that responsibility. One mistake and an entire student's schooling career could be over. And yet, Maya had fought so hard, had been willing to be paid _less_ than she was worth to keep that responsibility.

"How about you, Riley?" Lucas and Maya had both turned to face me. I looked up from my plate with a start.

"How's work?" Maya reached across the table, her fingers clasping my wrist. I could feel her wedding band digging into my skin. It used to be the friendship ring that would dig into that same spot, but she had since moved our ring to her right hand.

"Good," I lied. I almost wrote a whole sentence today, I wanted to add. "I'm working on a community piece for next Sunday's paper," I told them. They seemed intrigued, so I gave them the rundown on the Boys and Girls Club trip.

"I think it's great that they're teaching kids about how this city was shaped," Maya told me.

"Hey, Riles, if you aren't too busy, the clinic is running an adoption campaign with a couple of local shelters in two weeks. You could come down and do a piece on us. We could use the support. If you want to, I mean," Lucas suggested.

I made a noncommittal noise and said I'd bring it up with my editor. There was no doubt she'd like it. I could almost see her email now:

 _What a lovely idea for a community piece, Riley! Please have the write-up for the next edition._

But I could barely do a blurb on a bunch of kids taking a field trip. How was I ever going to do an adoption program justice?

We left the restaurant at a quarter past nine. Maya tried to force a bag of leftovers on me but I lied and said I didn't have space in the fridge.

"I'm gonna drive Riley back," Maya said. "I'll see you at home?"

"Actually, why don't you head back home?" Lucas suggested. "You've had a long day. I'll take Riley back."

My heart skipped a beat.

"If that's okay with you," he turned to me. I nodded mutely.

"Okay," Maya answered brightly, kissing her husband's cheek. "I'll see you at home." She threw her arms around me. "And thank you," she told me, squeezing me tightly. "I never would've had the guts to go in front of the Board of Ed and negotiate for my job if it weren't for you. You got me my job back. So thank you."

"Anything for you, Peaches," I squeezed her back. I meant it.

Lucas pulled a ticket from his coat pocket. "I'm parked at the garage up the block," he jerked his head toward where he'd left his car. Maya waved goodbye and headed in the opposite direction. I watched her disappear into the crowd until her tiny frame was completely out of view.

When we got to the garage, Lucas handed his ticket to the attendant and paid the fee. The man disappeared behind the doors of an elevator wide enough to load cars. It was chilly enough that I could see my breath in the concrete space. A tourist couple lingered to one side, waiting for their rental car. A family of four stood beside them, also waiting for their vehicle. Lucas shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat and exhaled.

"So," he turned to me. The elevator returned, bearing a white compact that the tourist couple climbed into.

"So," I answered, turning to face him. A wisp of a smile crossed his face. "How's life at the clinic?"

"Good," Lucas chuckled. "They keep me busy, but I love the animals."

"Where exactly is this place?" I had never bothered to ask. I assumed it was someplace close to their house.

"Stapleton," he replied.

"Staten Island?" I was surprised. "That's like an hour from Brooklyn!"

"If I'm lucky. But they needed the help and I don't mind the drive."

Lucas had always been the kind to sacrifice his own convenience and comfort for others he believed in. Or a cause he believed in. But an hour commute every day seemed insane. "What about school? How's that going?"

"Good," he repeated. "Really good. I've got two years left till I get my veterinary degree." His green eyes tracked around the garage. The elevator doors opened again, this time revealing a minivan. The family of four approached it, leaving the two of us alone. "My dad keeps telling me I should've been a doctor," he added after a moment. I couldn't tell if his smile was meant to convey humor or mask a bit of hurt. "Says I would've made more money."

Being a veterinarian had been Lucas's dream since we were kids. But his dad had a point. "It's similar enough," I frowned. "Why didn't you go to med school?"

"It's similar but it's different," Lucas shook his head. "There's a million med students that are gonna be doctors. Half the bio majors I met in undergrad were going to med school. Nobody wants to be a vet but somebody's gotta help animals, right? Why not me?"

I bit my lip. "I guess so…"

We were interrupted by the sound of the car lift opening up. The lot attendant pulled out a blue Honda CR-V with Conserve Habitat plates and came to a stop in front of us.

"That's us," Lucas tipped the man and climbed into the driver's seat, unlocking the passenger doors for me.

The SUV seemed new. Maybe it was new. When I opened the passenger door, the interior light came on and I saw bits of animal hair clinging to the black upholstery and the new car smell had worn off. I hoisted myself inside and settled into the seat, buckling the seatbelt across me. Lucas steered the SUV onto Canal Street.

"Riley, are you okay?" I gasped. The question came from so far out of left field.

"I'm fine, Lucas."

"Really? Because you seem different." There was no accusation in his voice.

"Different how?"

"Just…different. I don't know."

I wanted to tell him. I wanted to tell him that I _was_ different. I wanted to tell him that my life wasn't as perfect as his and Maya's. That work wasn't going well. That I was struggling to write five hundred words about something I witnessed. I wanted to tell him that I hated going to bed alone every night. That I wished I had what he and Maya had. I wanted to tell him that I loved him and I missed him and sometimes I wished I had held onto him for myself and I wanted him to hug me and I wanted to cry and I wanted to just sit in silence and not say anything. In the end, I chose the latter.

"Are you going to be alright?" Lucas asked, throwing the car in park outside my building.

"I'll be fine," I insisted. "I'm just stressed out, that's all."

He looked unsure of what to say, so I gripped the door handle and tugged. The passenger side door popped open.

"Riley, wait," he implored. I froze. Lucas leaned over and wrapped me in his arms tightly. I closed my eyes and let myself pretend. "Thank you," he said when he pulled back. He was my brother again. There wasn't any doubt. "For always being there for Maya. For me. For us. If it weren't for you, she would've been out of a job by December."

"It's what a good friend would do. It's what a sister would do," I told him. His lip twitched. I pushed the door open all the way and stepped out of the car.

"Good night, Riley," Lucas called after me.

"Good night," I answered. The passenger door shut with a thud. He didn't drive off until I had gotten through the door of my building and made it to the elevator bank. I felt dirty.


	3. Evasion

**A/N: I know I said I wasn't going to leave author's notes on every chapter, but I've received some questions that warrant attention, mainly dealing with which ships will be involved in this story. I don't want to give too much away, but I'll say this: Lucas is happily married to Maya and vice versa. He's faithful to her and vice versa. And Riley loves both of them too much to ever interfere with that. Right now, Riley's hurting and lonely and idealizing Lucas, longing for the simplicity of middle school and early high school. She isn't so much in love with Lucas as she is in love with the** _ **idea**_ **of having a partner. And soon enough, someone will resurface in her life that will fill that role for her. It's slow burn and if you were here hoping for a Riley/Lucas pairing, I apologize. I hope you'll stick around for the story but I understand. Bear in mind that the ships are NOT the most important part of this story, though. This is a story about Riley first and foremost. Hope that clears some things up. Enjoy!  
**

* * *

The alert tone went off on my phone, waking me up at nine. I rolled over with some amount of effort and snatched the phone off the bedside table. There was an email waiting for me on the lock screen and my heart dropped when I saw it was from my editor. Subject: DEADLINE. I swallowed and unlocked the device.

 _Riley,_

 _Is everything alright? I can't help but notice that your article isn't in to me yet. We want to go to press on Sunday. I know you still have a day before your deadline but you're normally so diligent. I just expected to have it already. Just a gentle reminder. Please send it to me ASAP._

 _Best,_

 _Rhonda_

I stared at the words and reread them a few times. A gentle reminder. I wanted to laugh. I should have replied that I would have the article to her soon and that I had a new story for next week. I should have suggested a piece on Lucas's animal adoption program. I deleted the email. I didn't need the extra pressure. It would only kill my desire to work.

Sun was streaming into my bedroom. I could see a ferry running across the bay to Jersey. If I leaned over enough and put my head against the glass of the window, I would see people bustling back and forth, scurrying to work. I lay back against my pillow. I wanted to go back to sleep. I didn't want to move.

It was nine AM. Maya was at work. Maya had a job. She would continue to have a job. She told me I was the reason for that. Maybe she was right. I imagined her sitting on a metal stool in the middle of an art room with students working at tables all around her. The wood floor was scuffed and the room smelled like paint and clay and oil pastels. Some of the kids had streaks of red and blue and green in their hair. And there was my best friend in the middle of it all, clad in a clingy, camel-colored sweater and a long, flowing skirt. Her blonde curls hung loosely about her and she looked content. Like a mother. Her skirt trailed behind her as she paraded around the classroom, offering words of praise to Tasha and her photorealistic shipwreck and words of encouragement to Hannah and her crude purple cat. She was beautiful in that decaying classroom, stocked with art supplies she purchased herself because the district-supplied paints and colored pencils inevitably ran out before the first marking period ended. She was loved.

Lucas was at work, too. I pictured him at that animal clinic in Stapleton in his dark blue scrubs and his gray Nike sneakers. His navy CR-V with the Conserve Habitat license plates was parked outside, his backpack full of textbooks and notebooks and binders sitting in the backseat, ready for class that night. I imagined him in an exam room, comforting a whimpering dachshund and coaxing it onto a scale or carefully dressing an open sore on a calico. Lucas straightened up as a veterinarian walked in—a sturdy blond man in his late twenties wearing a white lab coat. Lucas would look just like him in a couple of years. They exchanged some words. The vet nodded in approval. Distraught pet owners thanked him as their beloved animals were returned to them—good as new and he saw them off with a smile and a little pat on the head of a newly neutered puppy or a comforting squeeze on the shoulder of a child whose kitten would have to stay for the night.

I wondered what Farkle was up to. I hadn't seen him in a while. I missed him a little. He was probably sitting behind a large desk in a top-floor office looking out over the city. A secretary called him on his extension and informed him his nine AM was here. A nervous-looking member of senior management entered through the glass doors and sat in one of the chairs opposite his boss. Farkle then meted out his punishment or doled out his reward, firing or promoting as necessary.

I briefly imagined Charlie, carefully measuring with an engineering scale, punching numbers into a calculator, making perfectly straight lines on tracing paper. Except he was doing none of that. It was six AM in California. I imagined him lying in bed in an LA condo, his t-shirt rumpled and his arm dangling off the side of the mattress. Then I stopped because I couldn't bear to think about it anymore.

I rose slowly, pulling myself into a sitting position in the middle of my bed. My white sweater and my scarf were gathered in a heap on the floor to my left, a half foot away from my overflowing hamper. My notebook was open on my desk. The fishbowl was missing. I felt a guilty pang shoot through my chest. I wished I hadn't emptied out the bowl and left it in the shower. How could I have ever thought that a jar of paperclips or a stupid desk lamp could replace Chelsea? I should have bought another fish. But what was the point?

It took all my energy not to slump back against my pillow. I peeled the covers off of me and let my bare feet strike the coarse, bluish-gray carpet. I gathered up the previous night's outfit and piled it on top of the other laundry that I needed to do. The laundry room was on the fourth floor. That was fifteen levels away and I would have to lug the whole hamper with me. I used the article as an excuse and sat down at my desk to write. Maybe now that my editor had reached out to me, I would find the motivation to write the piece. I told myself I didn't want to let her down.

 _ **BOYS AND GIRLS CLUB STUDENTS VISIT BATTERY PARK**_

 _Riley Matthews, Guest Contributor_

 _BATTERY PARK—The Madison Square Boys and Girls Club students visited Castle Clinton and the Gardens of Remembrance on Sunday as part of the nonprofit organization's citywide initiative to educate children about the history of New York City. Students learned about the city's history as a gateway of immigration at Castle Clinton and later discussed the impact of 9/11 on city residents._

I had a little more than a tenth of the article composed after more than two hours. I read the paragraph, reread it, and then read it again until I was staring blankly at the screen and the words had run into thin black lines. My eyes were starting to water. I got up from the desk and stretched out my cramping right leg. It was almost noon. I hadn't showered or brushed my teeth or hair. I was still in my pajamas. The fishbowl was still taking up space in the shower. I moved it to the floor beneath the towel bar. The teal gravel rattled around with the motion. I stood under the showerhead and let the hot water cascade over me, nearly scalding my skin. The bathroom filled with so much steam that by the time I stepped out, I could no longer see my reflection in the mirror.

The cold air of the apartment bombarded me when I emerged from the bathroom, my hair dripping wet and a towel wrapped around my torso. I could feel the goosebumps forming on my exposed arms, my legs that I had yet to shave, the naked expanse of skin between my neck and the towel. I wanted to go for a walk. I still had four hundred and forty words to go. My laundry was piling up. I hadn't eaten yet. I threw on a sweater and pulled on my coat and left my apartment with my hair still wet.

It was cold out. Colder than normal. Definitely below forty degrees. Some of the apartment buildings on my street had Christmas decorations and menorahs in their lobbies. Thanksgiving was still two weeks away. I found myself headed for Battery Park before I realized what I was doing. A vendor stood at the street corner, selling honey roasted peanuts. The air smelled warm and sweet. My stomach rumbled. I crossed against the light as soon as I caught a break in traffic. A businesswoman in a peacoat raced along beside me, then overtook me.

The trees in the park were bare. Most of the plants had already turned crusty and brown. There were very few people walking along the trail. A couple of men in suits, clutching coffee and headed back to work. A few young mothers with strollers, conversing on benches. An older man walking his dog. A blonde art student who reminded me of Maya, sitting beneath a naked tree and sketching what she saw. And then there was me, desperately trying to avoid writing an article by coming to the very place I was supposed to be writing about.

I spent the afternoon at Battery Park, staring at the people and the bikes and the pigeons. I pictured the Boys and Girls Club kids chasing each other down footpaths and across the grass. There was no way I was going to generate five hundred words of type by tomorrow. There was no way I was even going to generate a hundred. It was impossible. It wasn't that interesting. I didn't have that much to say.

I went home at dusk. My laundry was still piled up in the hamper. I didn't eat dinner. I just collapsed into bed and decided that I wouldn't even try to make the deadline. What was the point in putting in all that effort when I knew it would be fruitless in the end? I slept more fitfully than I had in months.


	4. A Deep, Free Breath

I woke up on Friday feeling refreshed. I wasn't going to make the deadline. I wasn't even going to open my laptop. I made my peace with it. Whatever consequences resulted from this choice, I was ready for them. I stripped my bed—comforter, pillowcases and all—and pummeled the mountain of dirty clothes as deep into the hamper as they would go. The mesh basket looked ready to burst and I had to half-carry, half-drag my laundry to the elevator. The ride to the fourth floor seemed quicker than usual. It was mid-morning. No one else was washing their clothes at this time. Most people were at work and I had the luxury of four machines at my disposal. One for darks, one for lights, one for whites, and one for linens. I didn't even mind waiting on the fourth floor for the wash cycle to finish, even though it took a half hour. And by the time I had shifted everything to the dryers and gone back up to my apartment, I was giddy with the amount of free time I had.

I sat at my desk and considered my options. I wanted to call up Maya and ask her to go to lunch with me, but it was eleven-thirty and she was still working, still at school in the Bronx. Lucas was on Staten Island with a clinic full of pets and he'd be in class later. I could walk down to Battery Park again. It was cloudy but not raining and the temperature wasn't too cold. But I went down to the park yesterday and it's never any fun alone. I decided I'd give Farkle a call and see what he was up to. Of all my friends, he was the one who stood the best chance of being free. He's the boss. It's not like anyone could tell him no.

"Good morning. You've reached Farkle Minkus's office. How can I direct your call?" The woman who answered the phone had a smooth, even voice. She sounded like she belonged on the radio.

"Yeah, hi. I'm, uh, I'd like to speak with Farkle if you could put him on, please."

"May I ask who's calling and for what purpose?" Farkle's secretary sounded friendly enough but I could still hear my heart beating louder in response to the impromptu interrogation. What was my purpose for calling? Because I was bored and lonely and had too much free time on my hands? Because I hadn't seen one of my closest friends in months?

"Riley Matthews," I offered, pausing to see if the name might mean anything. When the secretary didn't jump in, I pressed on. "And I'm calling for personal reasons?"

There was a long silence, then the secretary said, "Please hold." Elevator music began playing through my phone's speakers, then faded as a spiel about Minkus International came on.

"Thank you for holding. Here at Minkus International, your time is valuable to us," a generic, male voice announced. "Minkus International is a multinational holding company with diversified investments in telecommunications, entertainment, hospitality, technology, and finance. We aim to provide a quality customer service experience. We'll be right back with you."

The music faded in again.

"Thank you for holding," the secretary came back on the line. "I will put you through to Mr. Minkus now."

There was the sound of a call dialing out. I held my breath. One ring. Two.

"Riley?"

I smiled at the sound of Farkle's voice. Professional. And yet I could still detect the humor lying beneath it. Or maybe I just knew him well enough to know that it was still lurking underneath his authoritarian façade. Maybe I was imagining it.

"Hi, Farkle."

"Good to hear from you!"

I pictured him sitting with his feet up on his desk, corded phone cradled between his shoulder and his ear while the smooth-voiced secretary typed way at her computer behind a large desk, visible through the glass doors of his office. I had never actually visited Farkle at work.

"What are you doing right now?" I asked. Stupid question. He was working.

"Not much," he replied. "Contracts to sign, documents to review, acquisitions to make. Same old, same old." I couldn't tell if he was joking or not. "What's new with you?"

"Nothing," I answered. _I just decided to not do my job anymore,_ I added silently. "I was just…I was wondering if you were free," I said. "To get lunch or something. You know, if you're not too busy or anything."

"Lunch sounds good," Farkle said, much to my surprise. "I can come pick you up in a half hour. You're still out by Battery Park, right?"

"Yeah," I breathed. Just like that I had gone from having a whole day free to having plans. And I still wasn't totally clear on what the plan _was_.

"Cool. I'll see you in thirty minutes."

Farkle actually arrived in twenty-eight minutes, just as I was pulling on the same white sweater I had worn the other night. It was still warm from the dryer and it smelled like fabric softener. When he said he was coming to pick me up, I expected him to arrive in a Town Car, chauffeur-driven because how else was the chairman of the board supposed to get around? I did not anticipate a black, low-slung electric car with Farkle himself at the wheel. I tumbled into the front passenger seat.

"Hey, Riley," Farkle greeted, watching me fumble for the seatbelt. He didn't lean over the console to hug me the way Maya always did when I got in her car. The seats were made of cool, black leather without any clingy animal hair like in Lucas's. The car idled soundlessly.

"Hi," I finally exulted as I clicked the seatbelt into place, settling back in my seat. I turned to study him. He had always been pale and that hadn't changed. I imagined that an important executive like him rarely had time for outdoor activity. He had changed his hair. His fringe was swept back from his eyes and parted to one side, falling in sandy layers with a wind-swept appearance. He had trimmed the back short and squared off the sides. It gave him a serious appearance. Pensive. Almost model-like. Somewhere underneath his structured overcoat, I could tell he was still rail thin. Farkle merged the car noiselessly into traffic.

"So, where are we headed?" he asked at the first red light.

"I-I don't know." I hadn't thought about it.

"Well what do you feel like having?" he tried again. The light turned green. He went straight and overtook a bus.

"I don't know," I repeated. I realized I didn't really care. I was just glad he'd agreed to have lunch with me. I thought about suggesting the Chinese place Lucas and Maya took me to. "Anything."

"Ever had Indian food?"

"No."

"I know a good Indian place in Jackson Heights."

"Jackson Heights is forty-five minutes away," I pointed out. "How long is your lunch break?"

Farkle smirked at me. "As long as I want it to be."

"Okay," I smoothed out the hem of my sweater and tugged at my seatbelt. "Jackson Heights it is."

* * *

We left the car at a parking lot off Roosevelt Avenue and walked the short distance to 74th Street. The restaurant was nestled between an Indian grocery store and a video shop plastered in Bollywood movie posters written entirely in Hindi. An orange awning shaded the picture window in the eatery's storefront, _Darshini_ emblazoned on it in elegant, green script. Farkle held the door for me as I stepped into the narrow lobby. A man with a thick mustache in a starched white shirt and black apron greeted us with a pronounced accent. It sounded almost British.

"Welcome to Darshini. Table for two?"

"Yes, please," Farkle answered. The host ushered us to a table against the window and handed us our menus. I sat first while Farkle shrugged out of his overcoat, draping it neatly over the back of his seat and adjusting it so the hem wouldn't drag.

"So you've never had Indian food before, huh?" he asked once he'd settled in across from me. I shook my head and frowned into the menu. _Dosa. Vada. Rasam._ None of the words meant anything to me and there were no descriptions accompanying the items. "What do you feel like having?" he pored over the items listed.

"I don't even know what half this stuff is," I admitted. I brought the menu up to hide my embarrassment.

"That's okay," Farkle replied easily. He hadn't looked up. "Do you want me to order for both of us?"

"Sure," I consented.

"You're not allergic to anything." It was a statement of fact, one remembered from years spent growing up together. I didn't reply.

The host returned, this time with a pitcher of ice water. He filled our glasses and asked if we were ready to order.

Farkle nodded. "Two masala dosa, please."

"It comes with pickle and sambar. What kind of chutney would you like?"

I watched Farkle hesitate a moment, eyes searching the menu. "Coconut," he finally replied. The host nodded his head and collected our menus. I had no idea what any of the things Farkle just ordered were, but he had always known much more than me.

As the host departed, I studied Farkle again. He hadn't aged much past high school. He had grown into his features a little more—the angular jaw and hollow cheeks no longer made him look so emaciated. But he was still smooth-faced without so much as a frown line to mar his complexion. Only the bags under his eyes indicated the sleepless life of an adult. I met his blue eyes, then immediately averted my gaze. We were both quiet. I pretended I was making a new friend.

"So, how've you been?" he asked stiffly.

I turned back to him and realized I wasn't making a new friend. I was getting to know an old one again and now he was expecting me to sum up the past few months in a single response. Where could I even begin? "Good. Mostly."

"Mostly?" he questioned, quirking a brow.

I felt the tips of my ears start to heat up. Why did I even say that? "I mean, things are okay for the most part," I lied. "Chelsea died."

"I'm sorry," he answered. "Friend of yours?"

"You could say that," I laughed. I wasn't surprised he didn't remember a class pet from ten years ago. "She was my goldfish."

"Oh," his face lit up in recognition. "You kept her alive all this time?"

"All this time," I repeated ruefully. "And then I woke up a couple days back and she was gone. It's okay, though. I mean it's not like she knew me anyway. Goldfish only have a three-second memory."

"You know that's just a myth, right?" he asked. "Goldfish can actually remember things for months. Maybe more."

"Oh." My face dropped.

"Which means," he continued, "Chelsea had to have known who you were. In fact, you were probably her best friend."

"Thank you," I smiled. "I-I really needed to hear that, actually." Leave it to Farkle to know something obscure like that. I'm glad he did, though. He returned my smile. We fell silent again.

The host returned with a circular tray. He set down two metal bowls containing an orangey stew. I could see carrots and other unidentifiable vegetables mixed into it. He laid out two smaller dishes beside them containing a white sauce of some sort. And lastly two plates with what looked like thin, rolled-up pancakes stuffed with potato. "Enjoy," he smiled, and then departed.

I watched Farkle spoon some of the stew and some of the sauce onto his plate and imitated him. He broke off a piece of the pancake-roll. It was thin and brittle, crumbling in his hand. "So this is the dosa," he pointed to the thin pancake for my benefit. "It's like a crepe. The stew is sambar. It's made with a bunch of vegetables. And the white stuff is coconut chutney."

"Where'd you learn so much about Indian cuisine?" I asked, making conversation. I broke off a piece of the crepe and dipped it into the stew like Farkle did. It was spicy, with much more flavor than I was used to.

"I spent about a month in Bangalore," Farkle replied. He wiped his mouth on his cloth napkin. "Last summer. We were acquiring a tech company based out of there."

I wasn't aware he'd spent a month in India but I shouldn't have been surprised. I knew from Facebook that Farkle traveled a lot for his job. LA, Berlin, Hong Kong, Singapore. And that was just in the last couple of months. It was funny, really. He always said he wanted to take over the world, and now here he was conquering it steadily with mergers and acquisitions.

"That must have been nice," I murmured. When I first became a writer, I'd entertained the idea of traveling the way Uncle Shawn did. I'd only ever been out of the country once, on a trip to Italy when I was twelve. I thought I would get the chance to visit exotic locales, photograph amazing scenery, and write interesting articles for travel blogs and magazines. But that dream had died somewhere along the way. I had to make money and there was no publication willing to foot my travel expenses when I was still unproven. I told myself I was biding my time but two years later, here I was—a guest contributor to the community pages of the local papers. And even that wasn't a guarantee now that I'd missed my deadline.

"It was," Farkle admitted. He stirred the ice cubes in his glass with his straw. "But honestly, I wish I could be home more, you know?"

"No, I really don't," I shook my head. "Sometimes it feels like I'll never leave the City."

"Don't get me wrong, traveling's great and all," he told me. "But I'm paying for an apartment I barely live in. I never get to see you. Or Lucas. Or Maya. Or even my own parents."

"Well you're here now, aren't you?" I pointed out.

"That's true," he conceded. "At least until right after Thanksgiving. I might need to fly out to Shanghai in the beginning of December, though."

"You should see everyone while you still have the chance," I suggested.

He smiled wanly. "I don't know if I have time…"

"What happened to 'lunch breaks for as long as you want?'"

Farkle smirked. "You may have a point there."

My phone buzzed. I resisted the urge to look at it. "So what else is new?"

He shrugged and broke off another piece of the crepe. A potato tumbled out of it and fell to the table. "Nothing really," he answered.

"Seeing anyone?" I watched his expression shift ever-so-slightly and winced. I hadn't really kept track of Farkle's love life after high school. His accomplishments brought a lot of media attention, which made him a lot more private. He dated Isadora Smackle all the way through senior year of high school and at least until sophomore year of college. That was the last time I'd seen them together. They were cute together. He was good to her, and she was good for him. But Maya told me they'd broken up a while back. I guess it's hard to love someone who physically cannot reciprocate. I know it had to have been hard on him. Smackle had since received a Rhodes Scholarship and left for London. I hadn't heard anything about Farkle dating anyone since.

"It's hard to see anyone when you spend more time out of the country than in," he took a sip of his water. "What about you? Seen anyone since Charlie?"

"Nope," I tried to sound casual and took another mouthful of the stew, but it went down the wrong pipe and sent me into a coughing fit. It burned.

"Riley? Are you okay?" Farkle came to my side and began slapping me over the back.

I nodded, trying to wave him off and reaching for my water. I was grateful my face was already red from coughing. I drained my glass.

"Are you alright?" Farkle's hand was still rubbing my upper back as if I might break into another round of hacking. I could feel the scratchiness building in the back of my throat and held my breath, hoping it would pass.

"I'm okay," I choked out. "J-just went down the wrong way, that's all."

"Do you need more water?"

"I'm okay," I insisted.

He sat back down. My phone buzzed again. I glanced at it. An email from my editor. My stomach lurched. I took one look at my half-eaten lunch and decided I was full.

"I-I think I'm finished," I told him. He didn't press me on it, just asked for the check.

"Wait, we're splitting it, aren't we?" I asked when I saw him putting his card down.

Farkle shook his head. "Are you kidding me? You almost choked. I got this."

I could have pointed out how one didn't have anything to do with the other. I could have pointed out how I was the one who asked _him_ to lunch. I could have mentioned how he'd driven here, paid for parking and everything. But I didn't fight him on it. The host ran the credit card and brought the little black book back. Farkle wrote out the tip and scribbled his signature, then stood and began to put on his coat.

"Thanks for lunch," I glanced down at my half-empty plate and worried he might think I didn't enjoy the food. I did. But I wasn't very hungry anymore.

"So what are you doing the rest of the day?" Farkle turned to me once we'd gotten back in the car. I wanted to say nothing. I liked being in his company. In _someone's_ company. And aside from a few brief encounters, we really hadn't talked much since the end of high school. We needed to catch up. I reminded myself he still had work. A couple of hours away from the office might have been acceptable, but to ask him to miss the rest of the day for me was too much.

"I…have some work stuff," I said vaguely. "My editor emailed me."

"Oh, okay." I thought he sounded a little disappointed. "Well, I'll take you home then."

We didn't talk much the rest of the way home. Farkle dropped me off right outside my building.

"Thank you. For lunch. And for spending time with me," I turned to him as I reached for the door handle. "It was nice seeing you again."

"I had fun, Riley," he replied. "We should get together again soon. Spend more time. Maybe catch up for real."

I leaned over the console and hugged him with one arm. He tensed a minute, then brought an arm up to return the embrace. "I'll see you soon?"

"Yeah," Farkle smiled. "See you soon."

I stepped out of the car and shut the door. Farkle waited in the car until I had walked up the steps and disappeared into the lobby. I watched his car pull away as I waited for the elevator.

* * *

I didn't check my email until after I'd gotten into my apartment and sat down at my desk. I knew what Rhonda had to say already. There were two messages now. Both from her. Both with the subject "RE: Deadline."

I opened the earlier one first.

 _Riley,_

 _I hope everything's alright. The community editor just inquired about your article. It was due at noon. I said you'd have it to us by 2 PM. Please make sure I have it by then._

 _Thanks,_

 _Rhonda_

The second one sounded more urgent.

 _Riley,_

 _The community editor is not happy. Call me ASAP._

 _-Rhonda_

I sighed and reached for my phone. It was almost four PM. Rhonda would be in her office for another hour or so. I had never really spoken to Rhonda in person or over the phone. I had her number, but most of our correspondence was done via email.

"Rhonda Clemons." Rhonda's voice was rich and full of bass. She sounded cheerful.

"Hi Rhonda, it's Riley."

"Sweetheart, are you okay?" she asked. The cheeriness had left her, replaced with a note of worry.

"I-I'm fine. I'm sorry about the article I just…I just couldn't get it done in time."

"I tried my best, Riley. I really did," Rhonda sounded apologetic. "But the community editor was really unhappy and freelancers are a dime a dozen. He's going to run a filler article instead. You know what that means…"

"I know," I answered. _I'm fired._

"Look, you're a good writer. Thorough. One of the best I've ever worked with. If you forward me another piece, I could try to get you in again…"

"I appreciate it, Rhonda. I really do. But I think I'm going to take some time to figure this all out." I didn't want to tell her what a strange relief it was to no longer have a deadline hanging over my head.

Rhonda was silent for a while. "Well alright, hon. Good luck to you."

"Thank you, Rhonda." I hung up the phone. The room was still. I took a deep, free breath. It felt great. Except it didn't. I was fired. I was out of a job. No income. No way to pay rent. And no plan. I let out a sigh, then reached for my phone again. There was only one person I wanted to talk to right then.


	5. Me and My Sister

It was stupid of me to deliberately miss my deadline. I had no backup plan, no options. My career and most of my life was freelance—falling into one thing or another by accident or opportunity. I had no regular columns, no editorial role, nothing. Just a couple of blogs I sometimes wrote for and the newspaper I had just been fired from. The freedom and relief was only temporary—a momentary high that came crashing down when I realized that I still had rent to make and bills to pay. I still had to eat. And even if I could churn out a couple of blog posts a week, the income wouldn't be enough to get me a place near Maya's school, let alone my apartment. In college, I had professors tell me that creative writing majors went nowhere and made nothing. They told me I'd be better off as an English major, a psych major, literally _anything_ else. But I hadn't listened. I was going to be the best journalist there ever was. I was going to be Uncle Shawn times ten. Now I was back to square one with no idea what I was going to do.

Maya showed up within an hour of me calling. I guess she knew from my tone that something was wrong. I didn't even have to ask when she rang the callbox. I just buzzed her in and left my apartment door unlocked. She blew through the doorway moments later, puffing and out of breath. She didn't stop to take off her coat and scarf. She just let the door slam shut behind her and grabbed my arm.

"I just ran five blocks from the parking garage in _heels_ ," she said as she dragged me along to my room. I let her pull me along limply. "Bay window. Now."

"I'm sorry you ran," I said quietly.

"Riles, there is no amount of pain I won't endure for you," she answered, finally releasing me so I could sit in my office chair. She dropped down on the end of my mattress and pried her shoes off. They had to be at least three inches. And she ran in them for me. "Now tell me what's the matter," she demanded as she began shedding her coat and scarf around her on my comforter. "You sounded upset on the phone."

I waited a moment. If I spoke, I would cry and if I cried, Maya would cry and that was the last thing I wanted right now. "I am upset," I said softly. I could feel the tightness building in my throat and the tears pushing at the backs of my eyes. "D-do you remember how you felt when you thought you were going to lose your job?"

Maya bit her lip for a second. "Riley…"

"I just got fired," I blurted. Like ripping off a Band-Aid.

"What?" My best friend was indignant, outraged. "Riles, you're the best writer in this city! How could they fire you?"

"I missed my deadline," I answered. "I just…I couldn't get the piece done in time."

"And they fired you for that?"

It was more than that. I just couldn't bring myself to tell her. Maya loved her job. She fought so hard to keep it. She wouldn't understand if I told her I had literally thrown mine away for the stupidest reason. "Freelancers are a dime a dozen," I quoted Rhonda. "I couldn't deliver, so the editor put me off the assignment."

Maya jumped up from the bed after a moment. "You know what? Screw that paper. There's dozens in this city! Plus magazines and blogs and literally a billion other publications. Start sending some sample pieces around. They'll be lucky to have you."

"Maya…"

"I actually know someone. This girl I met at SCAD. She's an editor for a local arts magazine and I know she'd be dying to have someone like you to cover local events…" She started pacing now, her socked feet padding across the carpeted floor.

"Maya…"

"Or you know what? Think bigger! The New Yorker! Heck, the New York Times!"

"Maya!" I interrupted as forcefully as I could. She stopped and turned to face me. "I-I don't know. I just…I'm not sure if this is what I want to do anymore."

"What do you mean, Riley?" she frowned.

"This whole freelance thing. Maybe…maybe it's not for me, you know? Maybe I should do something else?"

Maya sat back down on the bed and thought for a minute. "Like what?" she asked. She wasn't challenging the idea. She was genuinely curious.

"I-I don't know," I stammered. The entirety of my career—short as it was—had been freelance journalism. I had no clue what else I could do, or what else I might want to do. "I really don't know. That's why I called you, I guess."

Maya got up and came over to my seat, signaling I should scoot over. I did and she crammed into the little space I made for her, draping both arms around my shoulders. "You should do whatever you want to do, honey."

It wasn't helping. Too many people had told me I should do whatever I want to do but whatever I want to do doesn't pay bills. Whatever I want to do won't keep me fed.

"You know, with your creative writing degree and a couple of certification tests, you could be a teacher…"

"What, like my dad?" I snorted.

"No, like me," Maya pressed.

"Maya, you're a teacher. My dad's a teacher. I can't be a teacher." Just the thought of standing in front of a classroom and being responsible for twenty-something kids each period filled me with anxiety. "I have to be something else."

"Well whatever you're going to be, Riles, I'm here for you. You know that right?" Maya nestled her head into the crook of my neck. Her blonde curls tickled.

"Thanks, Peaches," I patted her arm. "You know, you're the first person I called. And I'm glad you're here. I have had literally no one else to talk to."

Maya was strangely quiet for a while. Then she popped up as quickly as she'd sat down. "You know what? We are _not_ going to sit around in this apartment at your bay window—"

"It's not a bay window," I pointed out.

"At your window overlooking the Bay," she retorted, "and sulk. It is early evening and this is New York! We're gonna hit up a couple of bars, maybe go out to a club. You need something to take your mind off all of this. Now go pick out something pretty," she grabbed my wrists and tried to haul me to my feet. I stayed where I was and made no move to rise. The last thing I wanted to do right now was get drunk. If I got drunk, I'd be a wreck. I was already a wreck. I didn't need the public to see it, too.

"Maya, I don't want to go out right now if it's okay with you. I-I think I'd rather just stay here and think."

"No. No, no, no, no, no," she insisted. "Riley, I am your _best friend_. I know you well enough to know you aren't going to sit here and think. You're going to sit here and cry, and you're going to sulk and feel worse. And it's my job to stop you from doing that so get up! If you don't want to go to a club or a bar, you're at least going to come to my house and we're gonna order in and watch stupid movies. Got it?"

"Maya…"

"Sweetie, I'm not asking," she summoned all the strength her tiny frame could muster and heaved me from the chair, assessing my appearance. "Good. Now go grab a coat because it's chilly. And pack an overnight bag."

"I'm staying the night?"

"Honey, you are _definitely_ staying the night."

I don't know why I always listened to Maya. I really didn't want to be seen by anyone right now. But hadn't I done the same thing to her when she was on the verge of losing her job? I cooked her dinner and took care of her because that's what sisters do for each other. And honestly, I was more than a little relieved that she was dragging me out of my apartment for the night. The last thing I wanted was to be alone.

* * *

Maya's car was parked at South Cove Plaza. She handed the lot attendant her ticket and paid for the hour and a half she'd been there. "It's a red Golf," she told him. The guy nodded and pulled her keys off a peg. The keychains rattled as they collided with one another. There wasn't a car elevator like in the Chinatown parking lot the night Lucas drove me home.

"Does Lucas know I'm coming?" I asked as we waited for the man to bring Maya's car around. I shoved my hands deep into my coat pockets to protect against the cold.

"Riles, you're one of our best friends. You've got an open invitation at our house."

"Still. Don't you think you should tell him?"

She shook her head. "It's fine, Riley. You are _always_ welcome and I'm sure he'll be happy to see you when he gets home from class."

The sound of an approaching engine cut the conversation short as Maya's car pulled into view. The attendant pulled to a stop in front of us and got out. Maya handed him a wad of singles and thanked him, then instructed me to toss my bag in the back. I opened the hatch and stuffed my overnight beside her tote bag full of grade books and portfolios and a twenty-four case of water bottles, then climbed into the passenger seat. The heat was going full blast, blowing the dream catcher dangling from the rearview mirror in all directions. The radio was on, tuned to a station I didn't recognize. Maya threw the car in gear and pulled out of the garage.

We sat quietly for a while, but by the time we reached the Brooklyn Bridge, it was clear she couldn't contain herself anymore.

"Say something," she said, turning the radio down.

"Like what?"

"Anything. What'd you do today?"

"I got fired."

"Besides that," she insisted, putting on her blinker as she merged over.

"I went out to lunch with Farkle," I said.

"You did?" Maya seemed genuinely excited by that. "How is he? God, I haven't seen him in forever."

"He's doing well," I replied. "It was good to see him. I really missed him."

"What's he been up to, anyway? I talked to him on the phone like a month ago and he was in LA."

"He travels a lot for work," I answered. "Did you know he was in Bangalore last summer?"

"Yeah, he told me," Maya replied.

"Oh," I frowned. "Well we caught up. It was nice."

"Tell him to swing by if he isn't too busy," she answered.

"When's the last time you saw him? Like in person?"

"Months," Maya responded. We exited off the bridge. "I think it was around May. He and Lucas went for a drink a couple months back and we text, but he's barely ever here."

"It was just really nice to talk to him again after all this time."

Maya turned to look at me. "Riley, are you okay?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"I mean you sounded kind of…I don't know, not yourself just now."

"What do you mean, Maya?"

"I mean, you sounded…I don't know," she shook her head. "Forget it."

"Forgotten," I answered, frowning. I didn't know what she meant by me sounding not myself.

* * *

Maya's house was a brownstone townhouse set in a row of identical brownstone townhouses along a one-way street. Each one was fenced in with its own wrought-iron gate. She told me when she moved in that the previous owner was a landlord who held six or seven units on that block. All freshly restored except for the one they bought from him. Maya parked along the curb in a large gap between two cars. She was situated in the middle of the space, occupying enough room for two vehicles. "Why are you doing that?" I questioned.

"When Lucas gets home, he'll move mine back and park his in front of me," she raised her eyebrows and smirked mischievously. Of course Maya would be the one to take up two spaces. I retrieved my bag from the trunk and handed Maya her tote. She shut the hatch and locked the car, then led me through the iron fence to her front door. A white awning shaded the top step and a red-painted front door was hidden behind the barred storm door. She unlocked the storm door, then the front door and stepped inside. The house was entirely dark and she fumbled for the light switch to the right of the door. The brass hallway light gave off a soft, yellow glow in the foyer, illuminating the off-white plaster walls and scuffed wood floors that hadn't changed since they'd moved in. Maya hooked her coat over a standing wooden coat rack. I imitated her.

"Make yourself at home," she instructed. I dropped my bag on the floor and watched her retreat into the living room. I followed. She flicked another light switch and moved some cushions around on the couch. The coffee table was littered with magazines— _American Educator_ and _The Veterinary Journal_ and _National Geographic_ and _The Artist's Magazine_. A few portfolios and grade books were scattered among them and a worn-out mammalian biology textbook sat to one side, a pen inserted to mark a page.

Maya vanished into the kitchen. I sat down on the couch and picked up _American Educator_. The cover featured a dark-skinned boy, probably about eight or nine. He was wearing a dingy, gray t-shirt and pants that looked two or three sizes too large. He clutched a broken pencil in his right hand. The feature story was titled "Slipped through the Cracks: The Plight of Foster Kids in Public Schools." I was sure my dad had a copy of this exact issue on the kitchen table. I flipped through it but I couldn't stand to read a magazine. Maya returned with three takeout menus.

"Take your pick," she chucked them onto the coffee table in front of me. "We got pizza, Chinese, and tacos. They all deliver."

"I don't know…"

"Then we're doing pizza because I have a coupon," Maya decided. She grabbed the phone and ordered two pies. Plain for me, extra pepperoni for her. "And I have this to wash it down," she presented an unopened bottle of Brunello di Montalcino and two glasses.

We were halfway through the wine and some awful eighties action flick Maya found on pay-per-view when the pizza arrived and by that time I was actually starting to feel better. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the horrendous acting or the blanket Maya had covered me with or the fact that my best friend in the whole wide world was curled up next to me, laughing hysterically at the fake blood and mimicking the over-the-top screaming sarcastically. It felt like the sleepovers we used to have in high school, or the few times we actually visited each other in college. Nothing could bother me while she was at my side and thanks to the laughing and the warm, greasy pizza and the fact that I had finished nearly the entire bottle of wine on my own, I wasn't worried about finding a job anymore. I could worry about that later on. Right now, all that mattered was me and my sister, acting like kids again.

I'm not sure what time Lucas came home. I was already passed out. But he was there in the morning, so he must have come home sometime. I wonder exactly what Maya said to him. Because things were different when I woke up.

* * *

Lucas arrived home close to midnight, typical for a weekday. His last class let out at ten forty-five. He shed his coat and hung it over the rack in the foyer. "Maya?" he called out. The sound of the television drew him to the living room, but he stopped short in the doorway when he saw Riley asleep, slumped against his wife's shoulder. Three cold slices of pepperoni pizza lay in a box on the coffee table, surrounded by empty wine glasses and crumpled-up napkins.

"Shhh," Maya put a finger to her lips and smiled softly. "Our little Riley had a bad day." The blonde gently lowered the brunette's head to the sofa cushion and got up.

"Is she alright?" Lucas whispered with concern.

"I hope so," Maya replied honestly. "Welcome home, my Huckleberry Husband."

He chuckled and folded her small frame into his arms, pressing a kiss into her curls. "Glad to be home, my Short-stack Wife."

They stayed like that for a minute, then Maya turned back to her best friend. "I'm gonna get her set up in the guest room."

"What happened?"

"I'll tell you about it later," she answered, shaking her best friend and rousing her gently from sleep. Riley stretched and looked about in confusion, still half-asleep and half-drunk. Maya took her hand and guided her to the spare bedroom, laying her down on the mattress and tucking her in like a toddler. Lucas was standing in the hallway when she turned out the light and exited the room and together, they retreated to their own bedroom.

"So what happened to Riley?" he asked, pulling his scrubs over his head and removing his undershirt.

"She got fired," Maya told him as she propped her pillow against the headboard and leaned against it, watching her husband for a moment. She caught his startled reaction.

"What?"

"She missed her deadline and they told her that they needed more reliable freelancers. The community editor fired her." She grabbed her phone off the nightstand and began scrolling through it, a bit too casually for Lucas's liking.

He frowned. "So now what'll she do?"

"She doesn't know," Maya answered. "I think she's still kind of in shock about the whole thing."

"I would be too," Lucas muttered. "How could they just let her go?"

"Same way they were prepared to let me go," the blonde replied without looking up from the screen. She swiped up a few times. "Except there's no negotiation and it's not about money."

Her husband shook his head. "You told her she can stay here as long as she wants, right?"

"Of course! I wasn't gonna wait for your permission," Maya teased, bringing her blue eyes up to meet his green. "Can I ask you something?"

"Anything," he said, opening the top drawer of the dresser and fishing around for a t-shirt.

"Riley's lonely."

"Not a question," Lucas turned and sent a taunting smirk to his wife that faded when he saw she was worrying her bottom lip in thought. "Maya, what makes you say that?"

"I can tell she is," she answered. "I know her."

"Is this because she's still single? Because most of the people we know are single, Maya," he pointed out. "Most people don't get married at our age…"

"It's not because she's still single," his wife interrupted. "I just…I feel like she doesn't have anyone to talk to besides you and me, you know what I mean?"

Lucas frowned. "That's not true, is it? I mean she has…"

"She has who?" Maya challenged, leaning forward on the bed. "Zay? _You_ barely talk to him ever since he moved back to Texas and enlisted, let alone her. Her parents? Well that's great and all, but there's certain things you don't tell your parents. Ever. Josh? He's off who-knows-where making films. Auggie's smart but he's too young to understand…"

"What about college friends?"

"Have you ever heard her talk about any college friends?" she shot back. "I honestly don't know of any. Definitely not any she'd vent to or talk about anything with."

"What about Farkle?"

Maya paused. "She told me she saw him yesterday for the first time in months. And even that was short and you know he's always out of town or out of the country. How could that possibly be enough?"

"You have a plan," Lucas stated.

His wife's expression shifted. There was a glint in her eye.

"What is it?" he turned to face her entirely, folding his arms over his chest in amusement.

"Charlie Gardner's in town for Thanksgiving…"

Lucas's face dropped. "How could you possibly know that?"

"Facebook told me. Just now," she held up her phone.

"Maya, no."

"Look, I'm not saying they're gonna get back together. But Riley hasn't moved on in five years. Don't you think seeing him might help her move on?"

"No!" Lucas insisted adamantly. "No, I don't! I think it'll make things worse."

"How so?"

His voice dropped to a near-whisper and he gestured to the wall that separated the couple from their closest friend. "You know as well as I do that if she sees him again, she's going to get attached to him. They didn't work out the first time. What makes you think they'll work now?"

"I'm not saying they're getting back together!" Maya also lowered her voice but adopted a hard edge to her tone. "Riley needs closure. And this will give her that chance. If she can finally let go of Charlie, maybe she can move on and find someone new. I mean she hasn't gone on a single date in _five_ years!"

"So this is about her being single," her husband observed.

"No! I just…Maybe getting back in the dating game will be good for her. Especially now. I mean, her whole life just took a major turn. Don't you think she could use someone stable to help her out?"

Lucas shook his head insistently. "I'm not so sure. Maybe you should try asking her first?"

The blonde settled back against her pillow. "Fine," she huffed.

His features softened. "I'm gonna go hit the shower," he said. "Promise you won't call up any Charlie Gardners while I'm gone?"

"Promise," his wife replied.

Maya watched as her husband retreated to the bathroom and waited until the water was running before she uncrossed her fingers behind her back and made the call.


	6. Volta

**A/N: Geez, I've been absent for a while! Sorry for the lack of updates! Life just got super busy. I don't plan on taking this long to update on a regular basis going forward! And again, thank you all for the great feedback!**

* * *

When I woke up in Maya's guest bedroom the next morning, I was confused. It wasn't my bed, wasn't my room, wasn't my house. It took a minute for the hangover to fade enough that I realized just why I was there and what had happened. I heard water running in the bathroom across the hall. The clock on the nightstand read 8:02. It was Saturday and I wondered why anyone would be up at this time when no one had to work. But if everyone else was up, I decided I may as well be, too. I rolled out of the mattress and pulled the faded blue sheets up over the pillow. The water shut off just as I pulled the bedroom door open and Maya emerged from the bathroom a moment later, her hair wet and a towel wrapped around her torso.

"Morning, Sunshine," she greeted.

"Hey," I forced a smile.

"You good?" Maya started down the hall toward the bedroom. I hung back.

"Yeah," I murmured.

"Hungover?"

"Just a little."

"I'm gonna go wake Lucas up," she told me, twisting the doorknob and opening the door a crack. Bits of sunlight filtered through the cracks in the blinds and into the hall. "His scrambled eggs could cure an alcoholic."

"Thanks," I whispered after their door shut.

* * *

I sat at Maya's kitchen table as she scurried back and forth, getting coffee ready. Her socked feet slid over the cold tile with barely a sound. Lucas was in the shower. I traced my fingers back and forth over the scratches in the wood veneer. My head pounded and the sunlight streaming through the gauzy curtains was inescapable. Lucas emerged from the bathroom in gray sweats and a navy blue t-shirt. His hair was damp and matted down. He waved a little awkwardly as he approached. I managed a half-smile.

"Hey," he greeted, pulling out a chair and dropping down across from me.

"Hi," I murmured.

"I heard about…y'know," he glanced at Maya as she stuffed a coffee filter into the machine.

"Yeah," I searched the table top until my eyes settled on a _Y_ shaped scratch near my right arm.

"You okay?" Lucas ducked his head, trying to see my face. I didn't pick my head up.

"I will be."

"So what's your plan now?"

I wished people would stop asking me that. "I don't know," I shrugged. "I'll find something."

"If you need anything, we're always here for you," he said.

Maya came to my rescue at that moment. If twins have telepathy, we have some deeper connection. She can read my thoughts. She knew I didn't want to talk about it. So she draped her arms around Lucas's shoulders and kissed the side of his head and told him playfully, "I think what Riley really needs right now is some of your magic, hangover-curing eggs."

"Right," he smiled guiltily as he stood up. I mouthed a silent thank you to my best friend and she grinned almost deviously in response.

Maya dropped down in the seat her husband had vacated, resting an arm on her knee and curling her other foot under her. She slid one steaming mug of coffee toward me and kept the other one close to herself. She fixed it how I like it—more sugar and cream than actual coffee. Hers was almost black. "You going home today?" she asked.

I shrugged. "I guess. I don't really have a choice, do I?"

"Honey, you can stay here as long as you like."

"No. I should go back to my apartment."

"I'll drop you back whenever you're ready," Maya answered, sipping slowly from her cup.

We sat silently. I watched Lucas beat eggs in a chipped ceramic bowl. The whisk _thump, thump, thumped_ against the side of it rhythmically. He bent down and rummaged in one of the peeling white cabinets for a pan, then heated it over the front burner of the electric range. The eggs sizzled when they hit the pan and Lucas stirred them.

"I'll keep my ears open for any job openings in the district," Maya told me, bringing my attention back to her. "I know you said you can't be a teacher but there's always other things you could do. Maybe an office job or something."

"Maya…"

"It would only be temporary," she insisted, anticipating my objection. "Until you can get your feet back under you."

Lucas turned around. "I'll talk to some people, too. See if anybody knows of any job openings."

"Thanks, guys." I decided to let the matter drop.

"Breakfast is served," Lucas dropped a plate of scrambled eggs in front of me.

"Toast and bacon?" Maya asked, turning eager eyes toward her husband.

He smirked. "Anything for you."

"That's my Huckleberry."

Maya had not exaggerated Lucas's scrambled egg-making abilities. By the time we finished breakfast, I was feeling a lot better. I excused myself to change and when I emerged, they had already cleared the table. Lucas was rinsing off the plates while Maya dried them with a dish rag. I smiled and started back toward the guest room to wait until they were done.

It was almost one o'clock when I threw my bag in the hatch of Maya's car and we set off.

"Actually," I began as she merged out of her parking spot and into the street, "do you think you could drop me off somewhere else instead?"

"Where?" Maya turned to me.

"My parents place," I requested shyly. "I should probably let them know what happened."

She bit her lip, then nodded. "Yeah. If that's where you want me to take you, then that's where I'll take you."

We were on the Williamsburg Bridge when I turned to her and blurted, "You don't think they'll be upset, do you?"

"Riles, why would your parents be upset?"

"I don't know," I shrugged. "Just…I mean, I don't think either of them's ever been fired before."

"There was that one time your dad almost got canned over supporting a new teacher…"

"That doesn't count! There was no way he was actually gonna lose his job."

"My point is, he's been where you've been. I'm sure they both have at some point," Maya told me. We exited the bridge onto Delancey Street. "They'll understand, Riles. They've always been there for you and they _will_ always be there for you." I thought I could detect a hint of bitterness in her tone. Maybe I was imagining it.

Maya stopped the car outside the low-rise apartment building where I'd grown up. Where we'd both grown up. It had hardly changed—even after all these years. Same red-brick façade. Same trees lining the sidewalk—a little taller now, and completely bare. Same black RAV-4 parked out front, telling me my dad was home. Same black iron fire escape Maya and I used as our primary means of entry and exit. I could even make out the same gauzy white curtains in the window of my bedroom.

"Want me to come in with you?" Maya asked, throwing the car into park and putting her blinkers on.

"No," I shook my head. I was terrified to tell my parents what happened. I didn't need her there to witness whatever was about to unfold.

"You sure?" She didn't look convinced, eyeing me from the driver's seat with one hand hovering over the button to shut off the engine. If I hesitated for even a second, she would push it and come inside with me.

"I'll be fine," I tried to keep my voice even.

"Call me."

"I will."

"You _better_ ," she threatened, jabbing a finger toward me.

"I will," I repeated, tugging the door handle and pushing the door open. I crossed to the back of the car and retrieved my bag. Maya watched as I made my way up the steps and into the narrow lobby of the building. I waved to her but she didn't drive away. I don't know how long she was parked outside.

I've been blessed with a lot of people in my life that I can count on and look up to. Of course there's Maya and Lucas and Farkle. There's my mother, the titan of the Southern District of New York, who taught me that we all have unlimited power and potential. Whether she's arguing in the courtroom or chatting up customers at the bakery, she possesses a gravity about her that I've always admired if not quite understood. People like her. People are inspired by her. Some even fear her. Everyone respects her.

There's Auggie, who at sixteen is probably the smartest guy I know besides Farkle. Much smarter than me and always ready to explain things to me when I don't get them. If ever there were a jack of all trades and a master of all, my brother is it. Music. Science. Life in general. You name it. He's an old soul and I'll never fully know where his genius comes from, but I'm grateful for him.

But my father has always been the most influential person in my life. For better or for worse, but mostly for the better. He's already met the world. Some might say he's even conquered it. He's definitely learned a thing or two along the way. Things he's imparted on me. And like it or not, Cory Matthews was my teacher long before I started going to school and he's still my teacher now. He'll be my teacher for life.

I didn't need the callbox. I have a key. It was the first thing my mother pressed into my hand when I got my own place and moved in. She put that key in my hand, closed my fingers tightly around it, and told me "don't forget to come home once in a while." So every once in a while, I do go home. Maybe not as much as I should. I took the stairs up and made my way down the carpeted hall, passing Ava's old apartment. An elderly woman lived alone there now.

When I finally found myself standing on the welcome mat outside the door of the place I'd grown up, I began to doubt myself. My stomach did a flip-turn. I could hear my heart beating. I dropped the bag on the floor and dug my keys out of my coat pocket. It took me a minute to find the right one, and then even longer to get it into the keyhole, but when I finally got the door open, I was greeted with an empty living room.

The couch was still where it always was, and there was a bigger TV in place of the old one. The lights were off but sunlight poured in from the windows opposite the door.

"Auggie? Is that you?" I heard my mother calling from the bedroom.

I swallowed. "No, Mom. It's me."

"Riley?"

Her footsteps approached rapidly and she materialized from around the corner, studying me like she was trying to figure out if I was really there or not. Then she rushed forward to hug me. "Sweetheart, did we miss your call?"

"No," I reluctantly returned her embrace. "No I-I didn't call actually. I was just…in the area. I hope that's okay…"

"Honey, of course it is! Cory! Cory, Riley's home!" My mom finally released me from her grip and I managed a weak smile as my dad joined her in the living room.

"Welcome home, sweetheart," he greeted softly.

"This is such a nice surprise," my mom said.

"I can't stay for long," I put in quickly. I knew they would try to convince me to stay awhile.

"Oh, honey, Auggie's out with his friends. He's going to be upset he missed you."

"I'll come back another time. I just…I need to tell you something."

My dad frowned. "You aren't pregnant, are you? Please tell me you aren't pregnant."

"What?"

"Cory!" Mom swatted his arm lightly.

"Sorry," he apologized. "Is everything alright, Riley?"

"Yes. No. Sort of?" I sat down on the couch and my parents followed suit, flanking me on either side. I didn't know where to start. I regretted coming. I should've waited until I found another job before saying anything. But it was too late now. Like ripping off a Band-Aid. "Mom, Dad…I found out yesterday, or rather they told me yesterday at the newspaper that…well, the thing is…I was fired."

I'll never forget the silence that followed. Surprised. Shocked. Maybe a little disappointed? "I couldn't make my deadline," I sighed to fill the gap. "They let me go."

"Honey…" my mother laid a gentle hand on my shoulder.

"So, I just thought I'd come here and tell you that," I finished. "Because I'm not sure what to do now." My mom enveloped me in a hug, rocking me gently back and forth like she did when I was little and inconsolable.

"What do you need, Riley?" my dad asked after a moment in thought.

"Huh?"

"Right now. What do you need?"

Even my mother seemed confused.

"A job?"

Dad shook his head. "No, Riley. More than that."

"…money?"

He shook his head again. "Even more than that."

I racked my brain. "Your love and support?"

Dad nodded his head slowly. "And do you have it?"

"Do I?"

"You shouldn't even need to ask," he said gently. "You always have it. And if you have that, the rest will follow. The rest will be fine."

It was a nice thought. A cute, comforting one that I would have clung to were it not for the simple fact that right now, I had no job and no income. Love and support were great, but they don't pay bills. They don't keep you occupied. It wasn't a real answer or a real solution.

My mother took a more pragmatic approach. "How much do you have saved up right now?" she asked. "How many months can you go without a job and still make rent?"

I shrugged. "Three or four months. But I don't want you to—"

"Sweetheart, we know if you need it, you'll ask. Three or four months is a while. That'll buy you some time. Have you started looking?"

I shook my head. "I don't even know where to start. This came out of nowhere."

Mom thought a moment. "The court's always looking for court reporters and transcribers. There's a couple of classes you'd have to take but after that, I'm sure I could get you in."

"Maybe," I replied half-heartedly. I knew she was trying to help, but stenography was about the last thing I wanted to do right then. Sitting and transcribing exactly what everyone said in court sounded more tedious than the freelance work I had been doing all along.

"And if you don't like that, we're looking for a receptionist at the law firm," she continued. "You're friendly! You like people. You'd be great at that!" She could tell I wasn't totally onboard. "Look, I am sure that we can find you something. Even if it means picking up shifts at the bakery until something more permanent comes along."

I sighed. The bakery was always an option. It had always been an option. But picking up shifts at my mom's side business was something I did in high school and between semesters at college. It wasn't a career. I wouldn't be able to face myself if I knew the only thing saving me from eviction was the convenience of my mother's charity.

"I just thought of something," Dad spoke up. We turned to look at him. "Josh is producing a documentary."

"Josh, your brother Josh?" Mom questioned.

"Yeah," Dad nodded. "What other Joshes do we know that could be working on a film project?" Dad was right. Uncle Josh was the only filmmaker we knew. "He was asking if I had any students interested in helping out as a paid production assistant. I don't have any, but maybe it's something you could do."

I thought it over. Production assistant certainly sounded more exciting than school office worker or court transcriber or bakery cashier, even if I wasn't exactly sure what being a production assistant entailed. "What's the documentary about?"

"Something to do with social services," Dad answered. I could tell he knew more than he was letting on. "Give him a call, see what he says."

The more I thought about it, the more the idea appealed to me. I could make some money. I would actually be doing something that got me out of the house. And I would be working for Uncle Josh. I hadn't seen him in a while. His work took him all over the place shooting all kinds of projects—National Geographic nature shows, History Channel specials in Egypt, and feature-length documentaries that debuted at small film festivals. It might even be fun. "Alright. I'll talk to him."


	7. Coincidence

_Coffee today. 3 PM. If you don't say something, I'm coming to pick you up._

That was all Maya texted me the following morning when I woke up. It wasn't a request, but nothing ever was when it came to my best friend. I was tempted to text back and decline, just to see what would happen.

 _Ok. But I'll need a ride._

 _I'll be there at 2:30_.

I knew this was another diversion. Her way of trying to cheer me up. Maybe I needed a diversion at that moment. I had yet to get in touch with Uncle Josh about the whole production assistant thing, though I was sure that my dad had already gotten in touch with him that night itself. What was I supposed to say?

"Hey Uncle Josh, it's your niece Riley. Please give me a job?"

I knew he would. But could he even give me a job? Wouldn't that count as nepotism? Would somebody say something? Have an issue with it? Would it be unethical to hire me since I had no experience and the only thing I had going for me was that I was related to him by blood? It would be a personal favor more than anything else.

I did my research on the role of a production assistant for a documentary and it sounded simple enough. I would basically be a glorified intern, helping the crew set up their equipment and remaining on-hand once shooting started in case they needed anything. I could do that. I could take orders and get things for people. It wasn't something that exactly needed experience. And maybe it wouldn't be so tedious since I'd actually be out and _doing_ things.

I sighed as I sat down at my laptop and began hammering out an email to my uncle. My uncle who hadn't been in New York since he graduated NYU three years ago and began his filmmaking career. My uncle who, at only three years older than me, was more like a brother than anything else. My uncle, who I had barely seen or heard from because he was usually off in some remote location halfway around the world, even during holidays. I wasn't even sure how to start.

 _Dear Uncle Josh_

No. Too formal.

 _Hey, Uncle Josh_

Better. More his style.

 _Hey, Uncle Josh._

 _My dad told me—_

No. I didn't want to make it seem like I needed my dad to find me a job. Then again, Dad probably already talked to him anyway. Whatever.

 _Hey, Uncle Josh._

 _I heard that you're going to be doing a film project in New York and that you're looking for a production assistant. I was wondering if I could help you out and take that position._

I deleted, re-typed, read, and reread the email over and over, but it never seemed right. Always too casual or too formal. Always too desperate or too cold. Always annoying when I read it to myself. I wouldn't even hire myself had I gotten an email like that.

My father used to tell me that coincidences don't exist. They're just the universe's way of saying hi. Coincidentally, Uncle Josh texted me before I was able to finish composing the email.

 _Hey Riley! Heard you're looking for a job. Your dad said you're interested in being my production assistant. Is that true?_

I hesitated only a moment. _Yes._

 _Can you call me?_

I inhaled, then dialed his number.

He answered on the second ring. "Hey, Riley!"

"Hi, Uncle Josh," I replied breathlessly.

"So," he began, "your dad said you're looking for a job? Something about transitioning out of freelance?"

"Yeah. Something like that."

"Well I've been looking for a production assistant for _weeks_ and so far everyone interested has been a dud. It would be _great_ if you joined the production. How much do you know about it?"

"Almost nothing," I answered. "Dad said it has to do with social services or something?"

"Yeah," he said. "We're working with the New York Office of Child and Family Services and a couple of sponsors to produce this documentary about the foster care system. We're gonna be shadowing social workers, interviewing kids and families, stuff like that. The pay won't be that great—I could probably get you about seventeen an hour—and we're gonna be going into some pretty awful parts of the City, but hopefully by the end we'll have a product worth showing. I'm still getting the final permits and all in place but I leave Philadelphia in a week to start preliminary stuff and the first shoot's in two weeks. Are you available?"

"Wait, that's it?" I questioned, trying to process everything he'd just told me. "You don't want to interview me or see an application or a resume or anything?"

I thought I could hear him laugh on the other end. "Riley, I already know all I need to know about you. You're reliable, you work hard, you get along well with pretty much anyone. I don't need to interview you to know you'll be really good to have on this project. So? You in?"

I hesitated. As interesting as this whole thing sounded, I still had no real idea what to expect. And while seventeen an hour wasn't as bad as it could be, it wasn't great either. Especially if this was just a temporary gig. But then again, I was literally being handed a job. I had to take it. "I'm in. Do you need a place to stay when you get to New York?"

"No, actually. I'm crashing at your parents' place. But thanks," Uncle Josh answered. "I'll send you an email with the details. I might need you to pick up some paperwork before I get there. I'll let you know. This is gonna be great! Can't wait to see you!"

"Me neither," I found myself smiling, although I couldn't tell if I was excited about the prospect of a new job or if I was just excited because he was excited.

"Talk to you soon, Riley."

"Okay, talk to you soon."

I hung up the phone and just like that I was employed again. I didn't even have to work at it, really. It just came to me. And part of me hated that because grown-up Riley shouldn't be relying on coincidences—on the universe's hellos—to get a job. Grown-up Riley should've been able to find herself something to do, not stumble into it by accident. But I was officially a production assistant for Uncle Josh's documentary, and some part of me—most of me—was looking forward to starting.

Maya texted me at 2:30 to let me know she was double-parked right outside my building and I was excited to actually have an update for her. Something good, for once. The heat was going full blast and Maya was fixing her makeup in the mirror on the sun visor when I climbed into the car.

"Hey, sweetie," she greeted, touching up her lip gloss and then dropping the tube into her handbag. She chucked her purse into the back and leaned over the gear lever to hug me.

"Hey," I smiled.

Maya eyed my jeans and turtleneck and lack of make-up, then twisted around to grab her handbag again. She dug around inside and pulled out the tube of lip gloss. "Here, honey. Put some of this on. There's some eyeshadow in there too, I think," she said as she dropped the whole bag on my lap.

I frowned. "Why do I need to put on makeup? I thought we were just getting coffee."

"We are. What? You can't look pretty for our coffee date?"

I knew right away something was up when she demanded I put on makeup to get coffee. Maya's a schemer. She's always been a schemer. But the problem with schemers is that no matter how well you know them, you can never really know what they're planning until they spring it on you. Until they're ready for you to know. I reluctantly complied with her request and brushed on a little lip gloss and eye makeup until a livery cab pulled up behind us and began honking his horn, forcing Maya to angrily merge into traffic.

"So where are we going?" I asked as we headed toward the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel.

"Flatbush," Maya told me.

"What's in Flatbush?"

"This little coffee shop that sometimes has local art exhibitions," she answered, easing through the toll booth as EZ PASS PAID flashed on the little screen.

"What's wrong with Starbucks?"

"I just thought that it might be nice to go here instead," she replied distractedly.

"But Maya, there's tons of Starbucks all over the place. Wouldn't it be easier to just go to one of them?"

"Pumpkin, we're going to this coffee shop. I already paid the toll."

"But—okay," I relented. Maya relaxed in her seat. I wondered if I should break the good news now or wait until we got to the coffee shop so we'd have something to talk about. Then again, Maya always had something to talk about or a question to ask or a topic to start a conversation. "So, I have some news," I began.

"Yeah?" my best friend arched a brow, taking her eyes off the road momentarily to glance at me.

"Good news," I elaborated.

"So are you planning to tell me or are you just going to leave me in suspense?" she teased.

I thought I'd stay quiet for a bit, just to keep her in suspense, but I couldn't contain myself. "I got a job!" I burst.

Maya let out a cheer and threw both hands in the air in celebration, causing the car to drift so far in its lane that I briefly worried she'd lose control. She quickly resumed her driving position once more. "Sweetie, that's great news! When? How? What? Who?"

We emerged from the tunnel on the Brooklyn side. "Well," I said, "I'm going to be a production assistant on a documentary."

Maya hung a right. "What's that involve?"

"Oh, you know, helping set up locations, getting paperwork, fetching supplies…"

"So a gofer?"

"No!" I insisted, gesturing in the air and seeking the words to explain, "more like…a personal assistant."

"So a gofer," Maya teased.

"Okay, fine. Maybe a little like a gofer," I conceded. "But it pays. And I'll get to be out and about. And it's a _documentary_. So it's not like it's _that_ different from journalism."

"Honey, I'm so happy for you," Maya said. "Do you think you'll like this better?"

I hesitated. "Yes," I replied. "I hope."

"How'd you find this gig anyway?"

I smirked. "Funny you should ask. Because the director and producer of this project is someone we both know."

"Is it?" she arched a brow again.

"Yes," I nodded. "Someone you once knew as… _Uncle Boing_."

Maya tapped the brakes, jerking both of us forward in our seats. " _What_?"

I giggled. "It's okay, Maya. We've all had our fair share of puppy love. I had a crush on Farkle in fifth grade, remember that?" _And I was practically in love with your husband from seventh through ninth grade._ "I had a crush on Farkle and you had a not-at- _all_ obsession with my Uncle Josh. Nothing to be ashamed of."

"Go on…" she growled with a note of humor, hunched over a little further in her seat. I couldn't tell if she was urging me or daring me.

"Anyway," I continued, "Uncle Josh is the director and producer for the documentary. Dad told me he still needed a production assistant so I got in touch with him and he said he'd hire me!"

"Riles, that sounds great! What's the documentary on?"

"Foster care," I said. Maya frowned. "We're taking an in-depth look at the system, the social workers, and the kids inside. I think it'll be interesting."

"Uh-huh," my best friend suddenly seemed a little unsure. "Riley, have you ever _met_ a foster child before?"

I struggled to think. "No. I don't think I have, actually."

"I have," Maya answered. "There's a few in my class."

"And…?" I started to worry.

"Look, Riles, it's great that you're doing this and all but…well, don't be surprised if what you see upsets you. These kids get pulled out of awful situations and put into homes that are only slightly better. If that."

I smiled. "Well, maybe this documentary will help make things better."

"Maybe," she mused, pulling to the curb in the only open spot she could find. "Coffee shop's a block that way. Feel like walking?"

"Sure," I shrugged.

The place Maya ended up taking me to was a little hole-in-the-wall coffee shop. Barely a single storefront. Four tables for two along an exposed brick wall and a few mismatched, gaudy-colored couches in the middle of the concrete floor. High ceilings. It was almost completely empty, save for the one woman in the corner tapping away at a laptop. Local artists' work hung on the wall opposite the brick. No prints by Maya. I walked over to one of the two-tops and draped my jacket over the back of a seat. Maya stole a chair from the neighboring table and set it at ours, then dropped down in the seat across from me.

"Oh, is Lucas coming?" I asked, glancing to the empty chair.

"Nope," Maya shook her head, blue eyes darting around the room.

"Hey, Ms. Friar," the barista greeted from the register, waving his hand. He looked young. Maybe still in high school.

"Student of yours?" I asked.

Maya shook her head. "Nope. But all the staff knows me. I had three pieces exhibited here before. They all sold within the first week."

"Is Farkle coming?" I questioned.

"Nope," she answered again, setting her handbag down on the empty third chair.

"Same as always, Ms. Friar?"

"Yes, please, Tyler," she called to the barista, picking up her purse and rooting around for her wallet.

"What's the third chair for?"

Maya pretended not to hear me.

"Who else is coming?" My heart was racing. I had no idea why. If it wasn't Lucas and it wasn't Farkle, who else could it be? She didn't answer. " _Maya_ ," I said a little louder, "who _else_ is joining us?"

The little bell above the door tinkled. I looked up and froze as a dark-haired young man entered the shop.

Five years.

I hadn't seen Charlie Gardner in _five years_ apart from the occasional Facebook update and yet he still looked exactly the same. He'd grown his hair out to the base of his neck and, like Farkle, the bags under his eyes had deepened with years of sleepless nights. But the round face, the lively eyes, and the half-smirk that always seemed to form in place of a neutral expression remained. There was no question that the man I beheld in the doorway was Charlie Gardner, clad in an unbuttoned navy trench coat and looking hopelessly lost. He caught me staring and froze up. I glanced at Maya. She couldn't meet my gaze, fixating instead on a single spot on the wood veneer of the table, tracing loops and whorls along its shiny surface. Charlie stalked over and stood awkwardly behind the chair. Between the two of us. He rocked on his feet a little.

"Um, hi," he gave me a tight smile.

"Charlie," Maya's voice was uncharacteristically high-pitched and smooth. The barista approached the table, setting Maya's drink down and collecting the money she'd laid out for him. "So good to see you. Sit down," she gestured politely to the seat and Charlie tumbled into it like his legs had given out.

I hadn't closed my mouth once since he walked in. I wasn't sure how I felt. Nervous. Jittery. Light-headed. Ecstatic? I mustered everything I had in me and managed to squeak out, "Charlie?"

"Um, hi," he repeated, shifting stiffly in his seat. "I, uh, Maya didn't tell me…that you were going to be here." My face fell. "But it's good to see you, Riley," he added quickly.

My lip twitched. "How have you been?" I asked. I wished I had ordered a coffee. My hands felt shaky.

"Good," Charlie answered. "It's—everything's been good. You?"

How do you even begin to fill someone in on five whole years of your life? Five years of college, friendships, dreams, jobs…It's too much. I could never give him the full rundown. He had to have lived it with me to fully understand. But he hadn't. In part because I didn't let him and in part because he didn't try.

After Lucas and Maya got together, I naturally found my way back to Charlie Gardner. It seemed weird to my friends. It probably seemed weird to him, too. But to me it felt natural. And in hindsight, it probably had more to do with the fact that I was desperate for _someone_ to like me, love me, appreciate me, look at me the way Lucas looked at Maya and she looked back. And Charlie Gardner was interested in me since middle school until I cut him off. But we never talked about that. I think he was just happy to have another shot. And I was happy to be treated like a princess. So we spent the majority of high school in the sort of whirlwind romance that my parents experienced. I've always been good at playing pretend.

But then college came around and the story changed. I was going to Oswego—a five hour car ride from home—and he was going to UCLA—a six hour _plane_ ride from home. That summer, we promised to go long distance. We promised to Skype and text and talk on the phone. We promised to make it work. But we both left those promises at the departure gate when he got on that plane, even if we didn't realize it at first. He was going to be an architect. He was going to build things up after they'd been knocked down. After an earthquake or a hurricane had torn them apart. He was going to rebuild them stronger than ever, fortify them against all the tremors that would come afterwards. He was going to shore up their walls against floods and storms and mudslides.

I truly believe that we both gave it our all at first. But soon missed calls started going unreturned, Skype chats went unanswered, and text messages were never replied to. He was thousands of miles away from me and three hours behind. At some point, we both had to accept that we were basically living like single people. We both had our own lives. It was pointless to try and keep this up. That's what I told myself when I met him two days before Christmas in Bryant Park and told him that maybe it was best if we just went our separate ways. We promised to stay in touch, but we left that promise behind as well. Every text I sent went unanswered, every Facebook message seen but never replied to. And now, five years later, here he was.

"Been a while," he murmured, as if I didn't already know. "What have you been doing?"

"Oh, you know," I stared at the table. I definitely should have ordered coffee. "Working."

"Writing?"

"I was. I kind of switched careers recently."

"Oh?" Charlie raised a brow. "Now what are you doing?"

"Working in film," I told him. Not technically a lie.

"That's cool," he replied.

"What about you? Working?"

"Yeah, I've been working for a company for a few months now. Developing high-rises in LA."

"Cool," I glanced at Maya, who looked like she was withering with every word we said. "So, what brings you to New York, Charlie?" I fixed my gaze on Maya until our eyes met. She averted them immediately.

"I was actually visiting my family for Thanksgiving," he said. "Maya got in touch with me and suggested we meet up for coffee. I had no idea you would be here…"

I frowned. "Would that have changed your mind?"

"No! I mean—"

"You mean what?" I challenged.

"I mean, well, I would've thought about it a little."

"Why?"

Charlie sighed. "Look, Riley, it's been a long time…" I could feel my heartrate increasing with every word he said, blood pumping faster through my veins. "And had I known you would be here, I probably would've felt weird."

"And why's that?" I shot Maya a glare.

"Because, I mean look at us!" Charlie sputtered. "We can barely talk to each other. It's just been too long, Riley. Too big a distance."

"It didn't have to be like that," I stood up suddenly, the chair scraping against the concrete floor. "When we broke up, we said we'd keep in touch. And we never did. You didn't even _try_ , Charlie! I reached out to you. You didn't want anything to do with me. And now you're saying it's too weird? We can barely talk to each other because we barely _know_ each other anymore! Whose fault is that?"

He looked stunned. The woman in the corner of the coffee shop quickly shut her laptop and left. The barista gaped at us. Maya sank even lower in her seat but I was too engrossed in my anger to feel embarrassed. For the first time, it finally occurred to me. I hadn't done anything wrong! This wasn't my fault! I did my best. Charlie never met me halfway. Never kept up his end of the bargain. And seeing him, sitting shocked and confused, I realized it never occurred to him that he _had_ done anything wrong. I spent five years mourning the loss of a relationship and a friendship and he clearly hadn't thought much of it at all.

"Thank you for coming, Charlie. Because I've learned one thing today. It was a good thing we broke up." I turned around and walked away, shoving the door open and embracing the rush of cold November air that greeted me as I stepped outside, striding emphatically away. I was halfway up the block before I realized I had no idea where I was or where I was going. I heard footsteps approaching behind me, then a gentle hand on my shoulder. Maya spun me around to face her.

"Why did you bring him here?" I questioned furiously. And I felt I had every right to be mad. She had dragged Charlie out to this coffee shop and set us both up. What was she hoping to accomplish? Maybe we'd reconcile and get back together? Or at the very least resume our friendship?

"Riles…"

"Why did you have to go and do that, Maya? Did you really think this was going to solve anything?"

"Riles, you were lonely. I thought maybe seeing him again…"

"Would what? Rekindle the old flame? Make me fall in love with him all over again?"

"Well…no," she deflated. "I mean, maybe some small part of me was hoping. But not expecting."

I balled my hands into fists until my nails bit into my palms. I was livid. I could have gone my whole life without ever seeing Charlie Gardner again and Maya had shoved him back into my life just when things were looking up. "Why?"

Tears began to form in the corners of Maya's blue eyes. "Because you always fixed things for me, Riles. You always poked and prodded and meddled and somehow you were so _good_ at it. You always fixed everything when you did that. And I just thought…well, maybe I could repay you, you know? Maybe I could play Riley this time and actually fix someone else's problems. But I guess I should've left it to the expert…Are you mad at me?"

Looking back, I should have hugged her. I should have hugged her and forgiven her and understood. She did exactly what I would have done if the roles were reversed. I would have set Maya up and forced her to sit down and confront Charlie. But it still hurt to see him again. "A little," I told her honestly because she deserved to know the truth.

"I'm sorry," Maya whispered.

"Just…take me home. Please," I rubbed my temples.

"Sure."

I didn't speak to Maya on the ride home, but I felt the tension dissipating in me by the time we reached Battery Park City. My headache had subsided to a dull throb. Maya pulled up outside my building. I got out wordlessly.

"Riles?"

I turned.

"Just…call me, okay? Please? Later?"

I nodded, then turned around and headed toward my building. I could see the red hatchback lingering in the reflection of the glass doors. I wanted to turn around and get back in the car and hug my best friend and reassure her that this, too, would pass. That I wouldn't be mad forever. But I was still mad now. I threw open the door and didn't look back as I waited for the elevator. My phone chimed and I was momentarily annoyed at Maya for not being able to resist. Then I saw who it was from.

FARKLE MINKUS

 _Hey, Riley. Had a great time with you the other day. Want to meet up again? Maybe tomorrow?_


End file.
